


Hello, My Lovely

by Dreadmartha



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic), Stab Dads - Fandom, The Intermission
Genre: And now posted in parts to help all us quarantined souls keep cabin fever at bay, Another in my series of Bob's Burgers episodes with the cast of PS and the Intermission, Head canon heavy and written to have a good time, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let the highly infectious disease of HBPI take over your body and mind!, M/M, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Once again this is more Raymond Chandler fanfiction than anything else, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, ongoing, stab dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23204167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadmartha/pseuds/Dreadmartha
Summary: Spades Slick has disappeared! Can Hearts Boxcars and Pickle Inspector find him before time runs out? Can they come together to save Slick and the lives of Team Sleuth? Can something more grow between them, or must they set aside love to go on with life in Midnight City?
Relationships: Hearts Boxcars/Pickle Inspector
Comments: 36
Kudos: 36





	1. Meet Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickle Inspector and Hearts Boxcars have an unexpected meet cute at their local library.
> 
> Huge thank you to Elle (munbunelle.tumblr.com) for giving me 'brick house' and Brandon Sanderson refs for this chapter!
> 
> Music plays a big part in this story, so each chapter will have a few songs to listen to as you read!  
> A sample of Jethro Tull, Living In the Past: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m__wmsIn99E  
> So Lonely, by The Police: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MX6MvV8cbh8  
> Brick House, by The Commodores: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrBx6mAWYPU

From what Pickle Inspector could tell the boy was about eleven years old, approximating from the wear on his Power Puff Girls backpack, the new shirt he was already outgrowing and the look of anxious frustration on his face. He was sitting in the downtown library chewing his lip and sweating over a copy of J. R. R. Martin’s _A Song of Fire and Ice_ , pulling his blonde hair with a blush slowly deepening the tan color of his freckled face. 

The boy was reading with some difficulty, picking his head up and shaking it vigorously about every sentence or so. It was a display Pickle Inspector could understand. The overwhelmingly grim atmosphere of the book and the deliberately harsh prose made it a tough one to get through. He’d always thought that it would be better performed by Jethro Tull, perhaps with a choral accompaniment but as to how that could be arranged, well, that was a completely different consideration that, if he was honest (and he sure tried to be), Pickle Inspector didn’t know where to start with. After all, being a music lover and a composer were two very different things. 

Pickle Inspector didn’t mean to watch the kid as he sat sweating over the massive book in front of him, but it was hard not to notice his frustration with all his head shaking and the dejected sighs he let out whenever he trudged through another paragraph. The detective couldn’t say if the boy had come to the library that morning just to torture himself, that much was hard to guess since Pickle Inspector didn’t know what kids these days were into. What he did know was that any young man who was trying to spend his Saturday morning in Westeros instead of pajamas and cartoons deserved to enjoy the experience. Or, at least, not be absolutely tormented by it. 

“Ah, excuse me?” Softly spoken by nature, Pickle Inspector had been asked to speak up more than a few times by his local librarians because his polite murmur was inaudible. He used his regular speaking voice now, coming over to the boy’s table. “Are you-- d-do you want to read that?”

* * *

Tavros looked up at the tall librarian, a man around his father’s age who looked like his body had been put through a taffy puller and then slid into a sweater vest. He wore the signature camel brown trenchcoat of a dangerous stranger and he looked like Tavros could take him with just his gawky pre-teen strength. But he didn’t think it would come to that, after all this blonde telephone pole could only be a librarian who’d spotted a kid reading something far outside his age level. 

And it wasn’t like he actually wanted to read it, anyway. 

He sighed and pressed the heel of his hand into his cheek, smearing it up his face to relieve some of the tension reading had caused him. 

“I mean…” he spoke in a quiet voice, looking from the book back up to the telephone pole. “No? Not really, I mean it’s good, everyone tells me it’s good and my cousins watch the show with their dads and they love it and so Aradia, she told me I should read the books because I wanted to find some fantasy stories but it’s… I mean I’ll keep trying...” 

Tavros turned dreadfully back to the page he was on, while the tall librarian stepped to the seat across the table from him and touched it with one long, pale hand. 

“Do you mind if I, ah, well I th-think I could recommend something else.” He pulled the seat out the few inches he needed to slip into it and folded his hands on the table. “It really doesn’t s-seem like you’re enjoying Mr. Muh-Martin’s writing.”

Tavros pouted and looked at his page number. He’d been on page five for an agonizing half hour, and he was only a little closer to page six. Admitting defeat, he closed the book. 

“It’s gonna get good, right? I mean, that’s the whole point is that it’s good and everyone loves it and that’s why it’s on TV now.” He stared at the cover, which showed only a grey family crest on a grey field. The winged serpent, maybe a dragon?, on the crest was the closest thing to interesting about the cover. And it still only impressed Tavros with how bleak the world of Westeros was. 

“Plenty of people like it, sure,” the librarian nodded, his wavy hair bobbing lightly over his tall, bare forehead. “B-but that doesn’t mean _you_ have to like it. What kind of b-book did you want?” 

“Something like, like with magic and knights and fairies and strong female characters and magic plant biology and swords--really, really big swords!” Tavros got on a roll and his voice steadily rose. The librarian held a finger up to his lips. 

“R-Remember, library.”

“Right, sorry,” Tavros quieted down again. “I just really want something that’s fantasy and that’s, y’know, _fun._ ” 

“Fantasy that feels l-like a,” The librarian touched his brainy forehead and twindled his pale fingers through the air. “Fantasy.”

“Yeah! Yeah exactly.”

The librarian sat back and thought for a moment, drumming his delicate fingers on the table, then sat up and nodded.

“How big a sw-sword are you thinking?”

* * *

Hearts Boxcars was definitely reading the paper, and not at all interested in his phone or the whereabouts of his would-be date. He was just calmly, relaxedly reading the news and savoring the information, not on edge for any sudden ping from the new dating app that had landed him here, in the small cafe in front of his local library, for a Saturday morning date. Nope, not interested in the phone at all, totally engrossed by today’s issue of the _Midnight City Tribune_. There was a whole article about the new gang that had been butting heads with the Crew and the Felt respectively, all about the new territory dispute that had ripped the Felt’s end of town in two. Such interesting, vital information; impossible to miss, so crucial to stay informed and not sit staring at his phone waiting for a message from his no-show date. 

It felt mighty square, going on a date at nine in the morning to a library. But it couldn’t be helped, Hearts worked nights and he wanted to be up front about dating and being a father. He didn’t expect this guy to get chummy with Tavros right away but, hell, it’d be nice. A quick hello to introduce Tavros to his father’s new (boy)friend after their date, that was all he was hoping for. After all, Hearts and Tavros were a package deal. 

A few nights of texting back and forth over the new fangled dating app Hearts and his new buddy agreed to meet this morning for breakfast. Or, at least that had been the plan. Right now his date was a half hour late and counting, with no explanation coming in over the app to say ‘Hey Hearts I’m running late, sorry fella.’ 

Overhead the cafe’s speakers were playing The Police. The barista behind the bar brought the espresso machine hissing to life but the cafe was still quiet enough for Hearts to make out the song:

_Now no one's knocked upon my door,_

_For a thousand years or more._

_All made up and nowhere to go,_

_Welcome to this one man show._

  
Hearts couldn’t argue with that. For all that he didn’t see why Droog was such a big fan of Sting he had to concede he’d gotten dressed up just to sit here with his lukewarm coffee. Nothing too fancy, this was only a first date after all, but he had traded his usual black on black on black for a burgundy shirt and a suit that was closer to charcoal. He thought he looked pretty sharp, but that didn’t matter now. 

If he was honest with himself Hearts knew the date was a bust. About a half hour earlier he spotted a guy who looked similar enough to his new buddy’s picture wandering into the cafe. The guy looked around, glancing between his phone and the cafe tables, and for a moment he looked at Hearts. The length of the cafe was between them but Hearts could make him out well enough to recognize his face, even if the blonde hair from his picture was a whole lot more brown in person. The guy took Hearts in, glanced at his phone like he’d just gotten a call and ducked back out. The door to the cafe chimed closed behind him and Hearts was left to sit with his newspaper and coffee and wonder. 

It could be any number of things. After all, he was a notorious legbreaker, wall buster and safe smasher for a criminal syndicate. He was also a father, a musician and a catch, as far as he was concerned. It could be his size, though the little ‘blonde’ had sounded excited about that. Whatever it was, it only marked what Hearts already knew: the dating app was a bust.

Meeting people in the flesh was just more natural. And in Midnight City it paid to be upfront with a partner. Maybe the app was good for finding a convenient arrangement but Hearts had no use for that. He wanted someone who could share in his hectic life, being upfront about that required more than over composed, digital conversations. 

Overhead Sting was squealing: 

_I feel so lonely!_

_So lonely, so lonely, so lonely,_

_So lonely, so lonely, so lonely,_

_So lonely, so lonely, so lonely,_

_So lonely, so lonely, so lonely,_

_I feel so lonely!_

Hearts couldn’t argue with that either. Instead of fighting the feeling he sighed and played the sap a little while longer. On the very slim chance he’d misread this whole morning, maybe his date would come bounding through the doors in another second. Platinum blonde and perky like he’d been on the app. 

At the very least sitting around would give Tavros plenty of time to find a good book in the library, so the morning wasn’t a complete loss. Hearts finally set down his newspaper over his silent, black phone. For the first time all morning he took a real look at the headlines. 

**Bocce Boys Seize Low Town Following Firefight**

The Bocce Boys were the latest pains in the Crew’s collective ass, new toughs who were well manned and desperate to make a name for themselves. Their leader, Jack Pallino, had his picture on the front of the _Tribune_ , the rest of the gang standing behind him in dull focus. He was an incredibly round, stout man. Round, bald head, round, wide shoulders, round belly overshadowing a pair of short, bowed legs. The other Bocce Boys matched him in shape, if not size. They flanked him in the photo, more than twice his height making them a gang of orbular bruisers. The picture was in black and white, turning the dark red and green suits the Bocces wore a uniform dark grey, while Pallino stood out against them, head to toe in crisp white. 

As much of a pain as the Bocces were for the Crew, the paper said they were an even deeper nuance to the Felt. Cold comfort, all things considered. The Felt’s territory shrinking only meant the green idiots were more ornery and keen to make problems for everyone else, and a new gang cutting themselves a slice of the city would only ever get hungrier and hungrier for more. 

Hearts frowned and flipped through the rest of the paper in search of good news. There wasn’t much to be found, just a pretty solid Calvin and Hobbes on the very last page. He wrinkled the paper together in his fist and stared down one last time at his phone. His thumbprint opened it to the homescreen where no messages of any kind waited for him. 

Yeah, okey then.

He got up from the table, took his empty mug back to the dish tub by the register and finally walked out of the cafe. Shoving the crumpled newspaper under his arm, Hearts walked up the front steps of the library and inside. Overhead a skylight let some of the overcast daylight shine into the narrow lobby. A pressboard front desk greeted visitors immediately as they came in, flanked by a row of triplet copy and fax machines and cabinets upon cabinets of card catalogs. Hearts moseyed passed all that towards the shelves of the fiction section, scanning the rows for his son. 

He’d left him at the table Tavros liked best in the whole place. Equidistant from the water fountain, comics, and fantasy/sci-fi sections, Tavros’s backpack was still hanging on the back of his seat but his son was gone. There was a brown overcoat hung over the other seat, and a bowler with a blue band sat on the table.

“Tavros?” Hearts said in more than a whisper, coming around the formica shelves towards the very back of the library. Here there was a large mural cut in relief from the cement wall holding up the back of the building, shelves growing up around it. At the edge of the mural two blonde heads bobbled up at one of the high shelves. Hearts recognized Tavros’s little peanut head, but not the leggy librarian helping him. 

Hearts came up as the two of them leaned together, scanning the top shelf from opposite directions and convening on the same book at once. He couldn’t place the librarian but the sweater vest and corduroy slacks didn’t lie. It was funny, the guy looked oddly familiar but Hearts would’ve remembered meeting a blonde with legs like that.

“Here we go,” the librarian reached one long arm with a pale spider for a hand up to a fat book on the top shelf. He pulled it down and handed the book to Tavros. “That’s why it’s called ‘h-high fantasy.’” 

Tavros chewed his tongue in a short laugh, looking starry eyed at the cover. A lone centurion in a striped red cape, as gossamer as a butterfly’s wing, stood on a red and purple cliffside. He held a twisted longsword, the length of his whole body, aloft towards a broad figure holding a staff and facing him from a cliff across a chasm that filled with dawn light. Storm clouds rolled in overhead, deep slate blue with the title in red and silver: 

**Brandon Sanderson**

The Way of Kings 

“Oh, oh man, Pops, look!” Tavros turned to his father and showed him the book, his hands shaking with excitement. Hearts looked at it and wondered if the same guy who painted the overly elegant, art salon covers from his own youth was still working. 

“Looks like you found something good, uh?” Tavros nodded hard enough to turn his whole face bright red. Hearts looked from his son to the librarian who’d helped him. 

He was tall and rail thin, with gangly limbs stuffed into a cable knit sweater vest that was too big for him but not long enough. Several inches of white button down hung out from under the hem of the sweater over his brown corduroy slacks. These were cuffed a ways above his birdy ankles and mismatched socks. Hearts could swear he recognized the long, gaunt face but he couldn’t pin a name to it. But there was something in the big blue eyes, about the bluest Hearts had ever seen, that was so damn familiar. 

He could kick himself for not remembering. It was wholly unlike him to forget a pair of long, elegant legs like that and Hearts smiled, ready to amend that mistake.

* * *

In Pickle Inspector’s line of work it was inevitable that he would forget someone’s name. After all, the world of the detective was, by nature, filled with many people and their multitudes of personal minutia. That meant everything from faces, names, occupations, likes, dislikes, feuds, loves, allergies, schemes, and screw ups. He could never anticipate when knowing someone’s shoe size would be imperative to solving a case, or when he’d need to know exactly how strong someone had to be to climb three storeys up a wooden trellis and into a dead man’s house through a false window. The amount of information in his head, and really in the heads of all of Team Sleuth, on any given day was preposterous. And thanks to all that, coupled with the flashcards he and Sleuth practiced with to keep the casts from their many jobs straight, and a regular subscription to the newspaper, and the simple fact that he lived in a populous, crime ridden city that supplied more than its share of quandaries for a detective, solvable and unsolvable, well... He could be forgiven for not recalling the name of this strikingly familiar side of beef. 

The Bombe machine in Pickle Inspector’s brain churned to life, one row of wheels turning in sequence to find out how he knew this man, the next row ticking along one letter at a time for a name. All the other rows started spinning towards any fact he might connect to this handsome stranger. 

Pickle Inspector tried spitballing the man’s measurements to aid his search. He was just a bit shorter than Pickle Inspector, making him roughly six foot two and somewhere around three hundred pounds. It was hard to guess with real certainty given how strong the man looked. Whatever he weighed, Pickle Inspector could tell he was a man built of very sound muscle, which, if he was honest (and he sure tried to be) made it that much harder to look away from him. He wouldn’t say he had any particular ‘type,’ unless being a good listener and a cat person counted, but Pickle Inspector thought the man cut a very fine figure. 

The fact that this man wore a crisp grey suit that looked brand new, an open button-up of glimmering, deep red polyester also registered with him. Along with a small puff of black chest hair that peeked out from under one of the buttons. These things all helped cloud Pickle Inspector’s search for his name. 

Now that he thought about it, there was something to the stranger’s familiarity in his broad, welcoming body. Pickle Inspector felt his ticking brain narrowing in on the answer and it was the bassline to the Commodores’s 1977 classic ‘Brick House.’ 

Pickle Inspector pulled himself out of his head enough to address his young friend, letting the wheels in his brain go on turning. 

“Nnnow, Mr. Sanderson is what you’re looking for b-but it might still be a little d-dark.” Tavros might’ve been listening, but he was mainly making googly eyes at the beautiful illustration on the cover. So instead Pickle Inspector addressed the boy’s father. “I should s-say there’s some mmmurder and a cover up and that sort of thing, if it b-bothers you at all.”

The father snorted the way any citizen of Midnight City would, a smile showing off prominent laugh lines in his fat cheeks. The long sideburns he wore almost to his round chin stuck out when he smiled, making the expression that much more warm and magnanimous. Almost leonine. Something about the smile threw off Pickle Inspector’s ticking brain, the wheels churning back a spell to recalibrate. The smile was new information, or maybe Pickle Inspector was just looking at it too closely? That did tend to happen to him. But, well, he didn’t really want to look away, and it was nice, this feeling of an unusual view of a familiar face. 

“I think he’ll be fine with that,” the father put a big hand on Tavros’s head, squashing his blonde hair and ruffling it affectionately. “His cousins are neck deep in Game of Thrones, is this any worse than those books?”

“Oh nnno, no not at all.” Pickle Inspector shook his head, while Tavros looked up and assured his dad. 

“We already tried Game of Thrones but we decided this would be way better!” He was clutching the book to his chest, alternating between hugging it and staring at the cover. “It looks so cool, look how big that guy’s sword is, Pop.” 

“It’s a mmmuch kinder world. Plenty of drama but not as grim. It’s just more,” he paused to find the right word, aware of Tavros’s father looking him up and down. It gave him a funny feeling, a pang of his usual anxiety combined with a warmth that could only mean he was blushing. Oh boy, Pickle Inspector knew his pale face reddened so obviously. And thinking about how hard he must be blushing only ever made him blush more. He let out a little huff to keep it together. “Mmmore colorful. I think it should be a p-perfect fit.” 

There was something else roiling in his gut. His wheels turned together, the key to set the cipher hiding the man’s name almost clear. As much as Pickle Inspector liked a mystery his gut told him this one had an unpleasant wrinkle. Or maybe he was just hungry? Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast...

“Now that does sound nice.” Tavros’s father nodded. He pushed his round chin at the book in his son’s hand. “So what do I gotta do to get a squiggly sword like that and some red undies to run around in?”

If anything could fish Pickle Inspector out of his head it was that image. 

Tavros shook his head and made a pinched face. 

“C’mon, Pop, it’s not even underwear. Look, it’s a cape!” 

“Oh, man, so I’d have a go commando?”

“Oh-h, very Conan the B-Barbarian,” Pickle Inspector found himself smiling despite the feeling of his blush rising from his neck to his ears. “Y-you only need an axe and some b-bikini bottoms.” 

“You get it,” The man snapped his fingers and pointed to Pickle Inspector, a bright smile on his dark face. “Y’know, Tav, Halloween is right around the corner. Maybe you and me had better get some loincloths, huh?”

“Pops! Don’t be silly,” Tavros looked like he was reeling at the idea. “It’d be way too cold for that.” 

“Nnnot if they were, s-say, bear skin. A nice fur lining? That sounds nice and cuh-cozy.” Pickle Inspector offered. Tavros gave a short yelp, pawing at his face at the image of his father in a furry loincloth, while Pickle Inspector’s mystery man let out a deep, barking laugh. 

He quieted in a hurry when several of the readers in the other rows of books all turned to the three of them and let out a sharp, powerful ‘shh!’ at once. Pickle Inspector scooted back and waved for the two of them to follow him. Tavros followed, ducking his head and blushing while his father smiled to himself. Pickle Inspector led them along the back wall, stopping at a quiet spot in front of the cement mural. Behind them shelves and shelves of periodicals stood empty, giving them a little more privacy. 

“S-Sorry, didn’t want to b-bother the readers.” He told his new acquaintances. 

“Nothing sorry about it,” The man told him. He nodded his head back the way they’d come. “I’m no fan of a stickler. Besides, I always liked this old mural.”

The father pushed his chin at the cement relief, smiled at Pickle Inspector and then back to the mural. 

It depicted the building of the Midnight City Clock Tower. Two men, one a broad, muscular worker cut in round geometric curves, and the other a willowy, brainy architect. The big man wore overalls and carried a rounded square block almost as big as he was on his back. The architect extended a guiding arm, pointing the block where to go and holding a clutch of blueprints behind his back. The famous face of the Clock itself loomed behind them as the two men faced each other. Around them the glass panes of the Clock’s face radiated out from its center, framing both men and especially the long, pointing arm of the architect. 

“I-It’s one of the few like it l-left in town.” Pickle Inspector said, having a hard time appreciating the art when he could be watching the mystery man’s smile. 

“Ain’t that a shame?” The man said with feeling, stepping closer and keeping his voice low. “Makes a guy glad to see this one. What d’you make of them?”

Pickle Inspector looked at the two figures and especially the round, robust man carrying the giant block. 

“It’d be something, b-building that whole t-tower. I guess they mmmust’ve been quite a team.”

“Y’think?” The man smiled at the thought then squinted at his own. He looked from the architect to Pickle Inspector and then followed his eyes to the worker. The man rubbed his back. “Now I look at that and think ‘Man, but that must kill his back.’”

Pickle Inspector let out a bubbling laugh and clapped his hands together. The sound echoed through the shelves and he looked mortified, glancing over his bony shoulders only to find they were still alone.

“Ooh,” The mystery man wagged a finger at him and smiled wickedly. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

Pickle Inspector put his hands up in surrender. 

“You got mmme.”

“Pops?” Tavros asked cautiously. “How was your date?”

His father coughed suddenly and dryly into his fist, jarred by the question. Pickle Inspector felt himself flush, balling up his fists. He watched the man fish his phone out of his pocket and pretend to check it. 

“He called and said he had to take a raincheck.” He was a smooth liar but Pickle Inspector didn’t hold that against him. The man cocked his head lightly and sucked his teeth, overly fine with his situation. “Too bad.” 

“Aww, I’m sorry.” Tavros hugged the book to his chest. He looked up at them both. “Maybe you two should get coffee instead.”

* * *

“Ah, w-well, that is,--” Neither of them could tell what the librarian was about to say, but they would both guess that steam was about to come out of his ears. The look of direct, uncertain anticipation on Hearts’s face kept him waffling. “It’s, uh, v-very nnnice but, the thing is, sort of, I-I don’t mean to b-butt in on your day--”

“Nonsense.” Hearts smiled at him and the librarian’s face brightened even if he looked wound up tight enough to snap. “There’s that little place out front, how about I buy you a coffee? For helping Tavros out.” 

The librarian let out a happy sounding sigh, his eyes twinkling and his hands wringing together. He started to nod and say something as Heart’s phone rang loudly in his pocket.

“Oh, is that him?” Tavros cocked his head as Hearts peered at his screen. The librarian was watching, looking pale and staring indelicately. A powerful ‘Shush!’ cut through the air overhead and Hearts winced. He ducked his head, grimacing at the caller ID. 

“No, it’s your uncle. Hang on, I better take this outside, I’ll be back in a minute.” Hearts put up a finger and smiled briefly at them both before hurrying away.

Tavros couldn’t help feeling miffed as he led his new friend back to their table. 

“I bet it’s work stuff, we’re gonna have to go in a minute.” He picked up his backpack and put it over one shoulder, holding his book in the other hand. “It was really nice meeting you, mister… Sorry, what’d you say your name was?”

“Ah, s-sorry, I didn’t even introduce mmmyself.” The librarian fumbled through three different overstuffed pockets before he pulled a business card out of his overcoat. “I’m Pickle Inspector, it’s very nnnice to meet you, Tavros.”

Tavros took the card, surprised that he wasn’t a librarian and a little concerned he’d trusted a complete stranger so implicitly. 

The card read: 

Discombobulated? 

Need Help Parsing Out Another of Life’s Many Pickles?

Look No Further.

**Pickle Inspector: Private Investigator**

**1-800-OGLE-NOW**

Offices of Team Sleuth LLP, 5017 Franklin St. Suites #40-42

“Oh,” Tavros said, feeling the chances of the private eye and his father having coffee growing far, far less likely. “You’re a rent-a-cop?”

“Wh-what?” Pickle Inspector looked baffled by that, his blue eyes bugging wide and white out of his face. He blinked a few times to collect himself, smiling bemusedly. “Ahh-h, I s-suppose so? I’ve scarcely heard it c-called that.”

Not by children anyway, that was more of the hard boy vernacular. 

Before Pickle Inspector could soak that in any deeper his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Oh drat,” he took it out and saw Ace Dick’s number and knew whatever he was calling about it must be some kind of screwball mess. At ten in the morning on a Saturday Ace must’ve really stepped in something to involve Pickle Inspector. “I’m afraid I’ve g-got to go. You, f-feel free to call if you need ah-anymore book recommendations, alright?”

“Yeah,” Tavros still seemed down about something, but he gave Pickle Inspector a smile nonetheless and waved as he walked through the lobby. “Bye, Mr. Inspector.”

Pickle Inspector came out into the street to find a view of Tavros’s father deep in a phone call with the boy’s uncle. Coming down the front steps Pickle Inspector had a view of the man’s backside that helped him ignore his own buzzing phone, even though he knew Ace would give him an earful if he didn’t pick up. He flipped it open and answered, standing a ways behind Tavros’s father and not exactly listening to Ace’s gruff greeting. The view in front of Pickle Inspector made it hard to think of anything except, well, _all of that_. Ogling couldn’t be helped. 

He was so taken with the view that he almost missed what the man was saying as he spoke firmly and with growing agitation to Tavros’s uncle.

“Diamonds--Diamonds slow down, you need to breathe. No, I haven’t seen him I--Why would I lie? Are you _that_ crazy? C’mon Droog, don’t--noo no, you’re not skinning anyone, do you hear me? Okey look, I’ll be there in a minute, can you just keep it together until then? God damn, Diamonds, I don’t know how Spades puts up with you. I--alright, you don’t have a yell, I’m sorry.”

The Bombe machine in his brain churned to a halt, the egg timer at the far end ringing bright and clear. Pickle Inspector knew in a rush that he was standing there ogling the ass of none other than Hearts Boxcars, legbreaker and bassist of the nefarious Midnight Crew. All the color drained out of his face and careened down his body, landing hard on the pavement under his feet. The hand holding his phone shook and he hissed in a breath through his teeth, finally hearing Ace Dick snapping at him. 

“Pickle? For Christ’s sakes Pickle are you there? We’ve got a goddamn mess on our hands here and we need you! Hello? Are you listening to me, you damned ostrich?”

“Ye-yeah, Ace,” he said in a whisper, clutching the phone to his face and ducking his head as he hurried past Boxcars. He thought he heard Boxcars start to break away from his phone call as he scuttled by and so Pickle Inspector picked up the pace, jumping gangly into his car and throwing the phone into the passenger’s seat as he jammed the key in the ignition, yanked the emergency break up and peeled out of the library parking lot. He’d barely gotten the driver’s side door closed by the time he was fishtailing out of the lot and into traffic. But he made it, no scary mobster snatching him up or nothing. 

Pickle Inspector raced to the nearest red light, a block down, then jerked the car to a halt and sucked in several long, deep breaths and picked up his phone. 

“Okey, Ace, I’m h-here. What’s wrong?”

“Jesus Christ, Pickle, I thought you’d fallen down a manhole or something. Where did you go? I heard you flop into something and then tires squealing, did _you_ get kidnapped?”

“Wh-what? Nnno, it’s, it’s too mmmuch to explain. Just, just tell me what you were g-going to tell me.” Pickle Inspector eased his foot off the brake as the light turned, his ‘68 Beetle trundling through the street. He drove extra slow now that he was on the phone, but kept his eyes moving between the road and his rear view mirrors in case a band of angry mobsters was going to come pouring out of the library parking lot after him.

“I’m not telling you over the phone. Just get your ass over here. It’s too much of a god damned mess to say over the phone.”

“God--Ace--nnnow is nnnot the time to be cagey!” Pickle Inspector loved Ace Dick like a brother, an unhelpful, borish brother. “W-Would you just tell me?”

“No can do, Pickle. Get to the office and me and Sleuth will show you. Come around back to the parking lot, we’ll meet you here.” He hung up and Pickle Inspector was left to weave through late-morning traffic with a growing, dreadful pit in his stomach.


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearts and Tavros talk about their librarian friend and the Crew formulates a plan to find Slick.
> 
> As in Summer Slam, Slick and Droog are married and raising Karkat and Aradia together.  
> 'Boopa' is an Italian term meaning 'doll' or 'pretty girl', typically a family nickname. 
> 
> Lean Baby, by Frank Sinatra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkhZ51cJVqM

“I’ll yell all I want, Hearts, and you’ll shut your mouth and get over here _now!_ ” Droog was speaking rapidly, his voice straining. Hearts guessed, accurately, that a cigarette was smoking itself in his hand while he spat into the phone. It sounded like Droog had been chain smoking since he woke, which would put him on his second or even third pack, at barely eleven in the morning. “Spades is _missing_ and you want to play _tone police?_ Stop wasting my time--”

He had more to say but it was mostly a string of Italian curse words. Hearts didn’t pay that any mind; he was a lot more interested in the cute librarian he’d just met running past him. There was barely a moment between the leggy blonde ducking passed Hearts, damn near right under his arm, and his powder blue Punch Buggy peeling out of the parking lot and through two lanes of traffic. Hearts put down the phone to call out to him but the librarian was too quick and by the time Hearts got his mouth open he was in the Bug and wheeling away.

There couldn’t be any library emergency that Hearts would miss standing there on the front steps. So the guy was ducking out of his shift and the library had only been open a couple hours. Hearts didn’t figure the cute nerd to be that kind of employee but, well, you never really knew somebody until you knew them. 

He should’ve asked for the guy’s number, what was he thinking?

A bunch of things bounced off each other in Hearts’s head and he almost forgot Droog was still on the phone. A jarring shout that might’ve been in English or maybe not brought him back. Spades was missing, that was bad. 

“Okey, Diamonds, okey. I’ll be right over, let me just grab Tavros.”

“Fine. Hurry.--” The call ended softly but Hearts knew Droog had slammed down his phone hard enough to crack his bony, old hand against the receiver. 

Hearts pocketed his phone, went back inside and found his son already waiting for him, backpack on with the new book under his arm.

“I checked out already. Uncle Spades needs you to come in early, right?” Tavros asked, looking up at his father. 

“Smart as a whip.” Hearts shook his head and pet Tavros’s hair, proud of his boy for always looking out. “Sort of, we do gotta get a move on. Uncle Diamonds can’t find Spades and he’s about to have a kitten over it. Hang on one more minute, I need to go ask something.”

“Is it about the guy who helped me?” Tavros asked, jostling his backpack around to slide his book away. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna get his name.” 

“Uhm, well, actually he gave me his business card.” Tavros zipped his backpack, pulled it onto his shoulders and then jostled in his pocket for the card. Hearts felt his eyes pop out of his head as he read it. 

“Would you look at that.” Hearts’s voice dropped into his stomach. He stood looking at the card another moment then turned back to the front door. 

So the familiar face with the cute stutter and the legs that went on for days was part of the other pain in the Crew’s collective ass: Team Sleuth. The three dingbats dumb enough to make trouble in a town run by more mobs than a guy could count. And one of them just happened to be the first guy Hearts clicked with since he’d decided to get back out there. Well that was just Hearts’s luck, now wasn’t it?

Tavros led them out to the truck, hopped into the passenger’s side and buckled up. Hearts climbed in the driver’s side, tossed his newspaper behind the passenger’s seat and dropped the business card into one of the empty cup holders. Wordlessly, he started the truck and the ‘65 Gladiator pulled out of the lot. Heart drove on auto-pilot, lost in his head puzzling over what kind of turd today was turning out to be. His date was a bust, his friend and boss had gone missing, and he’d met a man who should have been a mortal enemy but for the fact that he had an adorable smile and a great pair of gams. Jesus, it wasn’t even eleven yet…

“Pops?” Tavros spoke up, watching his father’s expression souring. “Do you think Aradia and Karkat will be mad I didn’t trust them about Game of Thrones?” 

“What? No, of course not.” Hearts spoke distantly, hearing his son and responding while half of him chewed over the day he was having. “It’s not bad to like different things, Tav. Different strokes for different folks.” 

Tavros went into his backpack, took out the new book and then dumped his bag in the foot well. 

“Yeah… But the thing is I agreed I’d like it even though I can barely watch the show and so I really tried to make the book work but even that’s just impossible.” He huffed, tapping the library book on his thigh. “But what else was I supposed to say?”

“This is about a TV show? Tavros, relax a little, that’s peanuts.” Hearts was tuning into his son now. “You gave it a good shake so what’s to be mad about?”

“I guess I just told them what they wanted to hear because I wanted them to be happy.”

“Yeah, I’m still not hearing a problem here, kiddo.”

“I told them I trusted them and it was a lie.” Tavros sank down in his seat, under the reach of his seatbelt, and stretched his legs into the foot well.

“Okey, now I’m starting to see how you got bent out of shape.” Hearts nodded. “Y’know it sounds like you trusted them to give you bad advice.”

“Yeah,” Tavros nodded with his seatbelt tucked under his chin. “Kind of. But now I just tell them ‘sorry?’”

“That’s it, more or less. They’ll understand, or they’ll only be upset because they couldn’t share something they liked with you. And that’s peanuts too, especially for family.” 

Tavros slanted his mouth from one cheek to the other, nodding thoughtfully. 

“We both have peanuts and we trust each other with them. My peanuts don’t like Game of Thrones and theirs do.” 

“Yeah.” Hearts’s face reflected his son’s as they both stewed over that. He couldn’t say he was sure just how this peanut would boil so he moved to a point he was sure of. “When you trust someone you gotta let them make mistakes, does that make sense? You know they can do what’s best but if they don’t that’s alright too. ’Course, you never know someone until you know them, but once you do you stand by them.”

“Uh,” Tavros’s brow furrowed and trembled a little. “Huh. So, okey, I definitely know Aradia and Karkat. And I guess I’m standing by them even if I’m standing too far away to watch Game of Thrones with them.”

“Yeah, yeah you got it.” He guessed if they stretched this rubberband any further they’d snap it back into misunderstanding but for right now they’d reached an equilibrium. 

“So,” Tavros started in a hurry, then paused to sound more somber. “So it’s okey that I trusted Mr. Pickle Inspector right? Because I really thought he was a librarian!”

“Oh, is that what this is about?” Hearts bit down on a bit of irritation as they came to the one thing he was trying not to think about. He looked out at the street, squinting through the cold sunlight. “No, yeah, Tav I thought so too. I mean, the sweater vest gave it right away, I figured.” 

“It’s both things, kind of.” Tavros shrugged and dragged himself upright in his seat by his seatbelt. “I know it’s no good but he was really helpful and I didn’t know he was a rent-a-cop until he gave me his card.” 

“Yeah, guy’s camouflaged in the library,” Hearts said. “What’d you two talk about? I mean, did he ask you anything weird? Anything about the family?”

He had a hard time believing Pickle Inspector had stalked them to the library and would have grilled his son for information when he’d found the two of them peaceably tracking down a book about giant squiggly swords. But it was possible, better to know now than find out later. 

“No, but, we talked about fairies and elves a little bit.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think there was anything to it.” Hearts’s brows slunk down gloomily. “He seemed an alright guy, especially for a private cop. And you got a new book out of it, so all in all not such a bad turn out.” 

Hearts continued, closing out the thought and vacuum sealing the whole encounter out of his mind for good. 

“Y’know, the thing with you cousins, and maybe a little with Mr. Rent-A-Cop. Aradia guessed wrong when she told you about Game of Thrones, we guessed wrong about the Inspector. That kind of thing happens, but you can always know people better, especially family.”

“So you two have peanuts now, too.” Tavros said, profoundly. “You’re on opposite sides but, but with the peanuts you know a little about each other. And, and the peanuts are because you almost got coffee together.” 

Hearts saw the seamless vacuum bag he had just put the morning in rip back open. His head ticked from shoulder to shoulder and then low towards his chest, his fat neck swelling under his chin. He spoke in a tight but frank and confidential voice.

“Do you want to know the thing about that, Tavros?”

“Yeah.” Tavros looked up expectantly.

“I’ll give you five dollars right now if you promise to never mention that to your uncles. Because me and a detective getting coffee? That ain’t just peanuts, your uncles would never let me live it down. We’ll talk some more about it tonight but until then that just never happened.” 

Tavros nodded, big eyed at the idea of being guardian of his father’s secret. And how many packs of Pokemon cards he could buy with five bucks.

“You got it Pops.” 

“Atta boy.” Hearts turned down their block and rolled down the lane until he came to the empty spot in front of their duplex. He threw the truck in reverse, reached a hand over to grip the back of Tavros’s headrest, and looked over his shoulder as he rolled back into the spot. Once they were parked he fished out his wallet and paid his son for his silence. 

“So you and Mr. Inspector can’t really… You’d never get coffee, huh?” Tavros said, looking seriously at the bill in his hand. 

“It’s apples and oranges, kiddo.” Hearts said with a heavy shake of his head. “Family types and snoops just don’t mix. We’re like the Sharks and the Jets, you know that.”

“You guys couldn’t be like Tony and Maria?” Tavros said glumly, giving his father puppy dog eyes. He hadn’t seen his father laugh with anyone since he started ‘getting out there’ again. Someone who could make his dad laugh and could share books with Tavros was like a dream come true. 

“Ahh, you know how that one ends, Tav. Even if nobody got dead we’d have to have a rumble.”

“I don’t wanna have a rumble,” Tavros sighed heavily, tucked the five dollars into his book and stowed both in his backpack. He turned back to his father after looking out the window at Slick and Droog’s tall Victorian style row house across the street. 

“And I guess with Uncle Spades missing you got a lot of work today.” He said, sliding his seatbelt off and shouldering his backpack. 

“You’re right on the money there.” Hearts nodded, opening his door and pocketing his keys. They crossed to the row house, coming up to the black front door under the skeletal Gothic arch of the portico. Hearts noticed the front stoop was littered with more cigarette butts than he could count. Wherever Slick was he’d better get home soon or his husband would be in an iron lung by nightfall. 

They opened the door into the long, tight hall that stretched the length of the house, a staircase opening to the second storey on the right while the rooms of the first floor opened opposite the stairs. The doorways repeated the skeletal arch of the portico, though they were much wider and allowed for Droog’s voice to come cutting through the air at them.

“Spades! Is that you?”

“No, s’us Diamonds.” Hearts shook his head, putting his hat on the coat tree by the front door while Tavros hung up his backpack. 

Diamonds Droog was already storming out of the living room, his shoes rapping on the dark wood floor as he came to make sure his husband hadn’t miraculously appeared doing a perfect impression of Hearts just to fuck with him. He took one look at them, threw both hands up and spat something in Italian that Hearts didn’t hear through the phlegmy haze that coated his voice. He slapped both hands down again, spun on his heel and stalked back into the living room. Smoke trailed behind him from the cigarette that burned dangerously low on his lip. 

“Good to see you too.” Hearts followed him, Tavros in tow, through the archway into the living room. 

It was a large, familiar room with dark, antique furniture, a bone white, marble fireplace with a burnt black hearth, and heavy burgundy, brocade curtains in front of a set of bay windows that looked across the street at Hearts and Clubs’s duplex. In front of the windows Aradia, Karkat, Sollux and Clubs Deuce sat on a long davenport watching Droog pace around the room, puffing along like the world’s angriest locomotive. Over the fireplace there was a large family portrait in oil depicting Slick and Droog standing over Karkat and Aradia. Whenever Droog reached the far side of the room from the fireplace he looked pointedly at the painting, then back at his hard, black shoes as he continued pacing. 

“Hey Hearts,” Clubs spoke nasally, sounding tired and irritated but certainly more calm than Droog. “How’s the boy?”

“I’m here, that’s about it.” Hearts shrugged his heavy shoulders. “What the hell is going on?”

Clubs got up, rubbing the back of his head with one plump, little hand, while Tavros took his spot on the couch. 

“Welp, Spades’s been gone since he took a meeting last night. He was supposed to make it back after midnight but when Diamonds got up this morning he was nowhere to be found.” He stood facing Hearts in the center of the living room, unconsciously mimicking his best friend’s posture. They stood across from each other, almost contraposto with one hand in one pocket and the other on the backs of their necks. “No answer from his phone, nobody’s seen him at his usual haunts.”

“It’s obvious what happened--” Droog spoke in a hiss, maybe attempting to contain his rage and doing a bad job or maybe not trying at all. Hearts and Clubs knew him about as well as anyone could but Slick was still the only one who could reliably decipher his moods. “Someone tried to bump him last night while he was gone and we were too stupid to realize. They’re _out there_ and we need to find them _now._ ”

“C’mon, Papa, no one would ever be able to rub Dad out in just one night.” Aradia spoke up, watching her father and uncles with her cheek in her palm. She was trying out a new style these days, her wild hair hung over half of her face, the rest of her dressed in all black. Despite the disinterested attitude that came with her new look she was clearly absorbed in today’s drama. And as far as Hearts figured she was right, Slick was simply too mean to get knocked off in less than forty-eight hours. 

“Yeah he’s totally too tough to get bumped right away, he’s got one fucking eye and one robot arm, I mean what would you even have to do? If you shot him he’d fucking catch the bullet and throw it back.” Karkat agreed with his sister, less intrigued by the drama and more concerned with beckoning the family dog, a scrappy little terrier named Racket, over to him.

“Language.” Droog looked from the portrait to his son.

“Sorry Papa.” Karkat looked up long enough to see his father start stalking around the room again, and went back to scratching behind Racket’s ears. 

“You could sshort out his arm and that’d be a good start,” Sollux lisped from the other side of Tavros. “If you wanted to fight smart, I mean. That’ss be what I’d do.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, would it be that easy?” Tavros asked, looking around at his cousins. “Just fry his arm? Then he’d only have one, so I guess that’d be really easy.”

“It would not be easy to kill Spades.” Droog spoke fiercely, over enunciating the way he always did when he was good and pissed. His eyes were bright and bloody red, his face pale under his olive complexion, and Hearts did notice a shade of bluish fear there too. The same fear tensed his broad, brittle shoulders and sunk his head so the olive skin on his neck folded over his high, biting white shirt collar. Droog liked keeping this fear stifled under layers of rage and that wasn’t working anymore. He continued with a clear, cold malice. “Whoever did this is going to pay. I owe them that. Now what are we doing waiting around?”

“Yeah, yeah we hear you. Just, bring it down a notch, huh?” Clubs patted the air in front of him with both hands. “Now that everybody’s here how about you give us the details. Where was this meeting last night?” 

Droog started a snarl at Clubs and when he opened his mouth to argue his cigarette finally gave up the ghost and tumbled down his suit, smearing ash and ember across his lapel. He sneered and slapped it out, thwapping the ash into the fabric and then sneered at that some too. It took him a moment of violent brushing and some cursing to collect himself well enough to answer. 

“A place called Florian’s bar.” Droog had the name ready because he planned to lock the patrons inside and light the building on fire. “It’s a dive in Low Town. He left after nine and gave the same lie he’s been giving all week ‘it’s important.’” 

Droog’s impression of Slick, though hampered by the three packs of cigarettes sticking inside his lungs, captured Slick’s needly manner of speaking with all the love and disdain his husband could feel. A blue pale spread in from his cheeks as he went on.

“He’s been sneaking around not telling any of us about his big, secret deal and now whoever he was with made a move.”

“Low Town.” Hearts clicked his tongue and looked between Clubs and Droog. 

“The Felt.” Clubs looked back at him, nodded his head lightly. 

“Those soft-boiled green sons of whores.” Droog said with poisonous vitriol. He cut each word viciously between his teeth. “That’s all we need, let’s go and get him back and make them fucking sorry.” 

Droog started stalking towards the archway into the front hall, only stopped by Hearts’s hand on his chest. 

“Whoa, hang on now. The three of us against the sixteen of them, Droog? You want to get dead right away?” Droog scowled hard, his face a gnarled caricature of the placid not-smile he wore in the portrait over the fireplace. “Let’s think here, if they took Spades then they’d have to keep him somewhere. That could be the manor but they’d know we would go there first so what if they took him someplace else, huh?”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Clubs rubbed his chin. “If I was gonna kidnap him I’d take him to some secret spot, like the garage, someplace I could work on him for a while.”

“My husband is not in a garage somewhere.” Droog snapped at him, thinking of the garage where he himself worked on people. For Slick to be on the wrong side of the manacled chair gave Droog goosebumps he’d never admit to.

“Diamonds, c’mon, he _could_ be in a garage somewhere.” Hearts agreed with Clubs, tapping Droog’s chest lightly and getting a grimace thrown his way. “We just don’t know to a certainty where that is.”

“He’s _probably_ in a garage somewhere.” Clubs qualified. “I mean it’s tough but that’s for the best. If he’s there they want him alive for a while, so better for us.”

“Why would they take him to a garage?” Tavros wondered from the couch.

“So they can give him a ‘tune up’, duh.” Aradia answered. She mostly, almost knew what her father’s garage was for, even though she was forbidden from ever going there or even finding out where it was. What she did know was a ‘tune up’ meant the same as roughing someone up, and both could be done in a garage. And if they were trying to rough up her dad then he’d be just fine.

She’d never met a rougher or tougher man than Slick so roughing him up would take days at the least, if it was even possible to roughen him at all. It would be like grinding sandpaper to make it coarse. 

“Is his piano gone too?” Tavros craned his neck to see into the next room where Slick’s piano stood shiny, black and closed. “No, okey, well I guess they won’t be able to tune him up that good, then.”

“If the Felt took him they’ll have their numbers split, right?” Clubs posited. “Three or four guys on Spades, probably the good ones, Crowbar, Snowman, maybe Cans and Matchsticks, and then the rest’ll be hanging around the manor to make things look good. The dumber ones, but enough of them that maybe we want to know who’s home before we go crashing in there.”

“Some of them have gotta be working the Bocces too,” Hearts put in. “They lost a firefight down on Third the other day, if they ain’t a couple men down already they’ve at least got their hands full on two fronts.”

“Good, they’re split, they’re weak, what’re we standing around for? Don’t waste time, Hearts, lets go.” Droog moved to push passed him again and Hearts pushed him back.

“Would you calm down? Jesus, and people say you’re the smart one. We’re doing all the mental legwork here and you just want to go on a rampage.”

“Yeah Droog, you oughta take a lap and maybe clear your head before we do this.” Clubs agreed.

Droog glared at them both. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be calm about my husband missing, really?--” He pulled in a deep breath, puffed himself up and then twinged with a wheeze. Before he even spoke his strained voice snapped and now the three full packs he had burnt through had something to say. Droog deflated into a coughing fit, his narrow body being racked as each cough built one upon the other. It was a hard, dry fit that sounded painful at the end, before he finally hissed in a dull, angry breath. He stood up, hair mussed and face taunt and purple. 

“Kids, don’t ever smoke.” Hearts turned to the couch. 

“Yes, Uncle Hearts,” they all piped, having heard it all before. 

“I’m fine,” Droog said hoarsely, swallowing hard and rubbing his throat. “I’ll be fine... once Spades is back… and the Felt are all deh--dead!” 

“I’m starting to think you’re a little too close to this.” Hearts told him. “We don’t know to a certainty that they’re the ones who got him.”

“Who else? Who else would be so bold, so fucking stupid, Hearts? The Bocce Boys? Those round halfwits can’t think unless Pallino does it for them. Be serious.” Droog was weakened by his coughing fit and somehow even angrier. “And if it was them I’ll skin all nine one by one in front of each other with a hot poker. We’ll see how they like a bed of nails after that--”

“Okey, you’re definitely too close to this.” Hearts told him.

“Hey Hearts,” Clubs said, his voice distant as something new occurred to him. “How was your date?”

“Oh, pfff, don’t ask me. It didn’t even happen.” Hearts shook his head and put his hands up, waving the question away. 

“Aww, I’m sorry big guy, you were so excited.” Clubs pouted sympathetically.

“’Preciate that, Clubs.”

“ _What are you talking about?!_ What are you talking about right now? Have you two idiots lost your minds? My husband is missing and you’re standing here asking about some stupid date Hearts screwed up?” Droog got his color back and lost it, his eyes going fiery and red again. 

“Watch the lip, I didn’t screw it up!”

“Yeah, hell Droog, you never listen to yourself. Didn’t you ever hear of checking in? It’s called being a good friend.” Clubs chided him. 

“Yeah, Papa, that was pretty mean.” Karkat said, picking up Racket and holding him in his lap.

“You know he’s not allowed on the couch,” Droog snapped at his son, while Aradia reached over and started rubbing Racket’s wiry furred head with both hands. 

“He’s not on the couch, Papa,” she said, petting his face and down his neck while Karkat played the bongos on his sides. “He’s on Karkat.”

Droog hissed out a long sigh, pressing the heel of his hand into the deep socket of one eye. “Raised smart asses.”

“Uncle Heartss wouldn’t sscrew up a date,” Sollux looked at his uncle. “He got dressed up and everything. And he’s got more bookss about romance than anything else.” 

“Thank you Sollux,” Hearts was pointedly gratified, giving Droog a look. It was clear in the slant of his scowl that Droog knew he was wrong. Or maybe just outnumbered. “You’re too wound up here, Droog. You’re gonna be a liability in the street.”

“I will not.” Droog turned on him. “What am I supposed to do? Put up fliers? I’m the only one making a plan, here.”

“You hear this?” Hearts waved his hand at that, looking to Clubs.

“I hear him, big guy.” Clubs crossed his arms and gave Droog a hard look. 

“Don’t you two get petty--all you’ve said is where he could or couldn’t be, you’re going in circles. I know where I’m going.” Droog bristled. 

“Yeah, Felt Manor and then the morgue.” Hearts tsked at him.

“I wouldn’t end up there alone.” Droog turned his burning eyes on Hearts and smiled venomously. “You wouldn’t understand, Hearts, but I’ve got someone worth killing for. That means something. But then again, how could you know what that’s like?” 

Hearts let out a slow breath through his nose and held Droog’s eye. So Droog wanted a fight, okey. But right now, when their friend was kidnapped, just because the old man wanted to be a bitch? They could say goodbye to Slick if they took each other out of commission before they even went looking for him. 

“Y’know what, Droog?” He said, stepping up to the old man and squaring his broad shoulders. “I think I know exactly what you need.”

“Yeah?” Droog responded with a gratified edge to his voice, eyes burning cold. He squared his shoulders, bringing his hands up before he realized Hearts’s arms were opening towards him and the big man was looking soft all of a sudden. “Oh, no--don’t you dare--” 

But it was too late. Hearts got both arms around him and pinned Droog’s arms against his sides, pulling him into a tight bear hug. 

“Oh yeah,” Hearts said soothingly, his voice rumbling in Droog’s ear as he picked him up off the floor. “Bring in it. Clubs, get in on this.” 

Clubs joined the hug, wrapping up Droog’s legs before they could kick for Hearts’s crotch, and the three of them squeezed together.

“I hate you both,” Droog spoke with rasping effort, most of the air in his body being squashed out of him. “So. Much.” 

“That’s right,” Hearts gave him a little shake. “We love you too, you old bat.” 

“Get--off! of me,” Droog couldn’t overpower Hearts but as soon as he felt Hearts readying to let go he shoved his way out. He swiped both hands up and down his clothes, scrubbing every bit of Hearts and Clubs off of him. He spoke in a bitter, rapid hiss. “Don’t touch me--”

“Uh oh, Hearts. I think we made him mad.” Clubs and Hearts alike backed off, but they still watched the rage reignite in Droog’s face, the humiliation of being loved by other people stoking his fire. 

“Yeah, that we did.” Hearts took an extra step back, just to give the old man more breathing room. It didn’t help him much, the homicidal look stayed in place and watched Hearts intently. “Oh yeah, there it is. Clubs, take care of Tavros if I disappear next.” 

“Alright, you’ll take care of Sollux if I go first?” Droog despised their teasing but the vaudeville patter of their nonsense wasn’t giving him an opening to jump them. And if he didn’t take them both out at once he’d be pulled into another hug for sure. 

“You’d really do that, Droog?” Hearts asked, without leaving room for an answer. “You’d kill us both and orphan those fine children.” 

The kids on the couch all leaned together, Sollux and Tavros making puppy dog eyes on cue. 

“That’d be a big grocery bill,” Clubs observed. “Look, he’s already doing the math.” 

It was true, the distracting nonsense had Droog receding into his head to crunch the numbers for four kids, no Slick, no muscle or explosives, cutting back the territory to what Droog could enforce while he wasn’t managing the household. His eyes turned cold again and twitched very slightly. 

“It’s like A Beautiful Mind, we should get him a chalk marker.” 

“Better carry that one, Droog, or it’s gonna carry you.”

“That’s why people say he’s the smart one,” Clubs softened his voice, knowing they were close to smoothing out Droog’s wrinkles. “All that crooked accounting is paying off right now.”

“You want Slick back so we’ll get him back, Diamonds,” Hearts softened up as well. “Now how about we keep you a while longer? Me and Clubs will go find Slick, you stay here and don’t get yourself killed.”

Droog came back to himself, one of his worst tells showing as the muscles controlling his upper lip ticked, wrinkling towards his nose. 

“ _What?_ You’re cutting me out?” The smoke in his voice made his tone heavy, adding to his betrayal so that for a split second he just sounded hollow and scared. 

“No, we’re putting you on retainer.” Hearts explained. “What would Slick do if he got home and found out you’d gone on a rampage and got dead while he was gone? We know we got some time here, how about you take the day and cool off. We’ll call if we need you.”

“So help me God, Hearts, I’ll skin you too--”

“How about we vote for it?” Clubs poked in. “Majority rules, uh? Just like ancient Greece.” 

Hearts nodded, raising his eyebrows, and Droog searched for a way to scrap the idea. But his Aegean blood wouldn’t allow such a thing. He nodded with hate in his eyes. 

“Hands for Diamonds staying.” 

Hearts and Clubs put their hands up. Over on the couch Karkat, Tavros and Sollux raised their hands. 

“Your votes don’t count.” Droog told the children. “Aradia you’re getting everything in the will.”

“Yesss,” Aradia punched the air while her brother and her cousins pouted. “I’d let you go on a rampage, Papa.”

“Thank you, _boopa._ At least someone around here has sense.”

“You’re outnumbered Diamonds. You’re staying.” Hearts said finally. 

Droog leered from Hearts to Clubs to the kids and back, then he groaned and pushed his ringed hands through his greying hair. Pulling his scalp back made his face look raw and skull-like. His groaning turned into a long, throaty growl before he pushed his hands clear of his hair and wheezed. 

“God dammit. God dammit! I need to go clean something.” He turned, his lip still ticking, and stalked out of the living room. His hard shoes rapped away, deeper into the house.

“Don’t worry Diamonds,” Clubs called after him. “We’re gonna get Spades back safe and sound, you just relax.”

“You get his keys?” Hearts dropped his voice, leaning down to Clubs, who nodded and fished out the keys he had swiped from Droog’s pocket during the hug. 

“Kids, you all keep an eye on Diamonds and whatever you do don’t let him out of this house.” Hearts said, stepping out of the living room to the foyer. Droog’s Brawlsoleum and Slick’s War Chest both stood by the front door, on either side of the coat closet, and Hearts locked them both, then pocketed the keys. “And if he starts asking why his guns are locked up tell him we made an executive decision not to arm him.”

“You guys are being pretty shady,” Aradia stuck her head into the hall to watch her uncle locking her fathers’ weapons away. “I don’t know if Papa needs to be betrayed right now on top of everything else.”

“It’s a soft betrayal.” Clubs assured her.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Hearts agreed. “Sometimes you gotta do things people don’t like for their own good.”

“That’s what trust is, Aradia,” Tavros chimed in. “You trust someone enough to let them make a mistake.”

“Well, uh, here it’s kind of flipped,” Hearts scratched the back of his head trying to get that settled. “We’re trusting Droog to listen to us, and soft betraying him as insurance to make sure he doesn’t get hurt… So it’s, uh…”

“We’re trusting you kids to help us trust Droog while he trusts us to find Slick.” Clubs put it all together. “You understand?”

The boys all hemmed and hawed, trying to get it, while Aradia put her hand out to both her uncles. 

“I’ll trust you. If you give me five bucks.”

“God, they raised you too good.” Hearts reached for his wallet and slipped his niece a fiver, pinching it away right before she could snatch it. “I’m paying you to keep the peace here, alright you sharper?”

“You got it, Uncle Hearts.” She plucked the fiver from his hand, collected the same from Clubs and went back to the couch. With the dollars crumpled in her hand she scooped up Racket from his spot in Karkat’s lap and wrapped the little dog up in her arms. He licked her face and she squirmed and closed one eye. “I’ll make sure Papa can’t leave and he’ll never know you soft betrayed him. Now go find Dad, if Papa has another coughing fit like that we’ll have to call an ambulance instead of keeping him trapped. Yes we will, Racket, yes we will!” 

“You heard the girl.” Hearts told Clubs, who nodded while he patted his pockets to be sure he was ready to hit the bricks. “I’ll take the East side from Florian’s, you take the West?”

“S’plan if I ever heard one. Kids, be good, we love you, stay out of trouble.”

“Love you kids.”

The kids let out a chorus of goodbyes and Hearts and Clubs saw themselves out. They crossed the street, Hearts checking his pockets to be sure he had both his keys and Droog’s. 

“Sorry again, Hearts.” Clubs stopped in front of Hearts’s truck, leaning against the bumper. “About your date, I mean. That guy doesn’t know what he’s missing.” 

“Yeah, thanks Clubs.” Hearts leaned an elbow on the hood of the Gladiator, pursing his lips and moving them around in a thoughtful circle. It was easier not to think about his date than to fight a stormy mood on a day like today. “That’s just the way it goes, I figure.”

“Next one’s gonna be it,” Clubs told him, rubbing his little belly. “I feel it in my gut. He’ll be a keeper for sure.”

Hearts let out a mirthless laugh and nodded. 

“What else does your gut say? Does he know the guy’s number?"

“That one he’s a little fuzzy on.” Clubs gave himself another firm pat. “He’s preoccupied today, got a lot of flatfoot work to do.”

“Funny thing,” Hearts said. “Us reeling in a dragnet for once. Who’d’a thunk, right?”

“Crazier things have happened,” Club cocked his head and slowly stood up from the bumper, moseying to the sidewalk while Hearts pulled open the door to his truck.

“This is Midnight City, after all.”

“Who’re you telling?” Hearts agreed, leaning against the open door. He glanced back at the house across the street and saw Droog’s pale face glaring out the front windows at them, the deep red curtain behind him turning his face ghostly white. “Alright, we better get a move on before Disaster Droog busts through that window.”

“Enh, yeah.” Clubs nodded and moved down to his car, brushing his chin loosely at Droog as he went.

The curtains across the street were thrown closed and Droog was gone. 

Hearts ducked into his truck and sat behind the wheel, moving his jaw from side to side as he thought of the best place to start canvassing. He turned in his seat and reached for a clutch of folded paper maps tucked in the passenger’s side door. As he did he noticed the white business card peeking out from the black cup holder. Retrieving the map, Hearts ignored the card and unfolded the map over the steering wheel. Somewhere on there he’d find a small black spade directing him exactly to where Slick had fucked off to. 

He just had to Where’s Waldo through the yellow, red and green blocks of the map to find it. Dragneting the thirty blocks of Low Town would be no mean feat, even for two seasoned gangsters. 

The spade never appeared to Hearts and he broke away to clear his head by tuning the radio. 

Through several stations of static he finally landed on the familiar, cool croon of Old Blue Eyes. Frank Sinatra purred out of the radio at Hearts as he sat rubbing his chin over the map. 

_She's slender, but she's tender,_

_She makes my heart surrender._

_And every night, when I hold her tight,_

_The feeling’s so nice, my arms can go around twice._

Hearts glanced from the East Side of Low Town and back to the business card watching him from the cup holder. He picked it up and sat fingering its corner and thinking about flatfoot work.


	3. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out how Team Sleuth is handling Spades Slick's disappearance, and Pickle Inspector decompresses in his office. 
> 
> Lazy Afternoon, by Pete la Roca: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQG5YfHZWdM

“Alright, Pi,” Problem Sleuth used Pickle Inspector’s infinite nickname the way he always did to butter Pickle Inspector up. “We’re gonna show you something here and you just need to promise me right now you’re not gonna freak out. Not a sound, not a peep, if I hear any ‘peep’ing when we show you this thing I’m gonna be beside myself, okey? You promise, no ‘peeps’?”

“Sleuth wh-what are you t-talking about?” Pickle Inspector had only been there for two minutes and he was already so, _so_ tired. 

They stood in the parking lot around back of the brick and mortar offices of 5017 Franklin Street, which held the three offices and one waiting room of Team Sleuth. Pickle Inspector met Ace Dick and Problem Sleuth on the far side of the back lot, in the perpetually open spots by the dumpster and the lonely turn into an access road only a few hardworking flatfoots knew about. Despite being in the most private part of the lot, they were exposed to open daylight as the sun crept higher and higher in the sky. Hard, white light beamed off the wide, flat, trunk and tall fins of Ace’s monstrously huge ‘57 Plymouth Belvedere, blinding Pickle Inspector. 

It might not have been as oppressive if the Belvedere weren’t done all in pale hues of pink and taupe, which Ace swore up and down were all ‘salmon.’ 

All this, coupled with the rest of his morning and now Sleuth and Ace clearly agitated with the big secret in the back of the Belvedere, had Pickle Inspector bleary eyed and sweaty. 

Ace and Sleuth didn’t look much better. Since Pickle Inspector arrived Ace had been trying to work a kink out of his neck and had only stood there, jabbing his meaty hand under his jaw while he turned his head one way or the other. He’d let out a number of grumbles but didn’t move from where he stood holding the lid of the trunk in place with his other hand. His face was pinched and red, the way he always looked when his stomach seized up on him during a tricky case. 

Sleuth stood with one hand on the lid of the trunk and the other alternating between angling at Pickle Inspector and pinching his earlobe. This was something Pickle Inspector knew was a little affectation he’d stolen from one of his beloved Bogart movies, a quirk he adopted to look thoughtful. Besides his goofy posturing, there was a very real look of alert awareness about him. Problem Sleuth had been chewing over something all morning, and so far he didn’t like its taste one bit.

The worst sign of all was the finger sized tracks in the shiny black grease that was Problem Sleuth’s over-coiffed hair. If Sleuth was too agitated to use one of the four combs he always carried with him then they were in a tight spot to be sure. So far Sleuth hadn’t lost any of his color; the intense look on his handsome face belied his brain twisting and turning this Rubix cube for an answer.

“It’s a mess so fucking brace yourself, okey?” Ace said, his short fingers gripping the lid of the trunk and pinning it down with more strength than both of Sleuth’s hands. He spoke earnestly up to Pickle Inspector, shaking his jowled head. “For serious, it’s a goddamn mess. Your nerves are gonna be shot, that’s a given, but try and brace yourself anyhow.”

“You think saying that is supposed to h-help? They’re mm _my_ nerves, Ace, I know them a little b-better than you do. Just rip the b-bandaid off already, boys.” Pickle Inspector insisted.

“Alright, but no ‘peeps’, okey? I’m serious, you gotta keep it cool. If I hear you about to ‘peep’ I’m gonna slam this thing closed and have to cover your mouth. This has to stay on the deepest down low, you understand, Pi?” Sleuth assured him, his hands dancing up from the trunk to help him make his point, brown fingers angling at Pickle Inspector with every ‘peep.’ “Just us and the girls and that’s it. Any more and this’ll be some real bad trouble.” 

“Yes, okey, fine, can you just show me?” 

“I mean it, cool as a cucumber in hot sauce, Pi. Palacid, like _calm_ , calm. You hear what I’m saying?”

“Sleuth!” Pickle Inspector felt his shoulders tighten up and he pantomimed yanking the trunk open with both hands. “Go!”

“Alright, take a good look because we can’t leave it open. Ace?” Sleuth nodded to Ace and he unlocked the trunk, putting both hands on the lid and pulling it open. The trunk stayed open only a few seconds and Pickle Inspector saw a number of things all at once: 

******1.** There weren’t any jumper cables or a jack or even a set of wrenches in the back of Ace’s car which was just a bad idea. You never knew when an emergency or some malfunction could happen on the road. 

**2.** The inside of the trunk was badly dented along the lid, both ends of the trunk, and much of the synthetic carpet in the bed was shredded.

**3.** (And this was kind of a big one) Spades Slick was scrunched in the trunk with his good eye facing up as a spot of clear, hateful white in the darkness. He had one heavy, black, red and purple welt on the side of his head, a mark made by a weighted leather sap that could beat a guy unconscious in a few strokes. His metal arm was lightless and frozen, bent at the elbow in with char marks on the visible circuitry where his piston powered bicep fit into the net of synthetic tendons meshed over his condyles. The arm lay pinned against Slick’s side by its own weight. Slick wore dried blood on the same suit he’d been wearing for a day or more, but he didn’t appear to be bleeding currently. 

The cold sunlight shone in his face, his eye adjusted painfully and poorly after laying in the dark for so long. Slick saw them in a rush, a mouthy idiot on one side of him, a beefy idiot on the other, and the tall palm tree idiot a few feet behind them, dead ahead. 

The little ganglord lunged forward, a metal edge gleaming in his good hand and slicing up and out with the rest of him.

“Cocksuckers!”

Pickle Inspector didn’t see the knife but he heard it when metal hit metal. Sleuth and Ace slammed the trunk lid down and Spades Slick’s sap-marked head connected hard with the inside of the trunk. There was a reverberating note from inside that started the Belvedere bouncing lightly, squeaking while Pickle Inspector stared. 

He could hear the sounds of a moving body and a man cursing from the inside of the trunk but it was low, hard for Pickle Inspector to make out as he stood only a few feet away. A new dent showed in the top of the trunk, a jagged little bump piercing out through the ‘salmon’ paintjob in the exact shape of Slick’s hooked knife. 

“He won’t give us the knife.” Sleuth admitted right away, holding the trunk while Ace locked it. “At least, he won’t just hand us the knife.” 

Pickle Inspector stood there nodding, letting his jaw slide open slowly and then touching his hand to it and slowly closing it. He came around to speaking and gave them an honest summation of his feelings. 

“What the _fuck_?” He felt the word pull all the air out of him, the intensity of his confusion and disbelief making it exhausting just to stand there. “Wh-Why is Sp-Spades Slick in your car, Dick?”

“ _Shh_ \--shush!”

“ _What’d I say,_ Pi?!” The two of them opening on him wound Pickle Inspector up tighter and tighter. There was so much to worry about this morning and his two best friends were a huge, huge part of why. He breathed in deep and batting away Sleuth’s hands when he reached up to cover Pickle Inspector’s mouth.

“What did y-you _do?_ ” Pickle Inspector leaned down to get to their level and whispered as sharply as they had. He squeezed Sleuth’s hands in a swarm of emotional turbulence. Sleuth squeezed back, green eyes watching Pickle Inspector’s face empathically before he let out a nosy sigh and turned to point his lips at Ace Dick.

“Well, Dick? You wanna explain?” 

Ace was on the spot and he grunted, giving his two buddies a direct, stoic glare from under his heavy brow. 

“Okey, so you know yesterday when we had to run and nail down that crazy psychic who was using phoney elocution lessons to find rich marks and then steal their jewelry?” He asked, keeping one wide hand on the trunk. “We had to run up all those stairs chasing after him and my car got towed while we were away.”

“I told you to pay the meter, Dick, I told you to do it.” Sleuth picked his hands up from the trunk to point at Dick then touched them back down like he was helping contain their unwilling guest. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m the bad guy because I won’t give Midnight City a dollar every time I leave my car on the street? What do I pay insurance on the damn thing for if I still have to pay to just leave it someplace, Sleuth?” 

“Do you know what insurance is, Dick?” Sleuth squinted at him. 

“Of course I do, I get the bill for it every week, don’t I?”

“Every _week?_ ” Sleuth squealed. 

“I nnneed you to get b-back to the story.” Pickle Inspector felt his head heating up. 

“Okey, okey. Sleuth, you can ride me. Pickle, here’s the brass tacks.” Ace gave it to him straight. “They towed my car down out in Low Town last night and I had to call around all morning to get the impound open on a Saturday. I go down there an hour ago, pick her up and when I pull up the drive I hear Ole One Eye beating like hell on the tail light.” 

There was a steady, hard ‘wack!’ from inside the car, approximately where Slick’s feet would be, that shook the tall pink fin of the Belvedere. The car bounced again and then the sound repeated and kept repeating. The tail light jostled in place but hadn’t given way yet.

“Yeah, like that!” Ace tossed a hand at the noise, his brows settling in a fat scrunch over his eyes. “Son of a bitch has been doing it all morning, we’re just lucky he don’t have that robot arm working or he’d’ve ripped my car in half already.”

“Like the Terminator...” Sleuth mused, tugging his ear. 

“Just like the Terminator.” Ace agreed solidly.

“And h-how mmmany times have you slammmed the trunk on him?” Pickle Inspector started gripping the length of his tie in his bony fingers and bunching it up inch by inch in his hand. “He’s wearing a sap mmmark, boys. He nnneeds to go to a hospital.”

Another thought occurred while he reeled in his tie. 

“Just let him out!” 

Sleuth and Ace shared a look and Ace drummed his fingers on the trunk of the car. Sweeping a hand through his hair, Sleuth spoke slowly and smoothly to Pickle Inspector, his shoulders going loose as he leaned back on one foot, hands in his pockets.

“Well, I mean, Spades Slick has probably had more concussions than the three of us put together, right? One more isn’t gonna be the straw that breaks that camel’s back.”

“Just let him out--” Pickle Inspector knew the game Sleuth was playing and he wasn’t in the mood to be smoothed over by his pretty friend or his pretty friend’s nice hair and con-artist tricks. “You d-didn’t put him there--” 

Here Pickle Inspector broke off and earnestly searched his friends’ faces.

“B-boys you d-didn’t put him there, did you?”

“No, no! It’s like I said, Pickle, c’mon.”

“Hand to God, Pi, we’re outta the loop on that one. All we know is he ended up in the impound in the back of Ace’s car. Do you think we’d really go and kidnap Spades Slick without you?”

“Okey,” Pickle Inspector let out a shivering breath and stared at the rattling tail light. “Boys we’ve g-got to let him go.”

Ace slapped the top of the trunk with his meaty hand, smacking it in time with Slick’s kicking of the tail light. “Would you quit it! This thing is a classic, don’t you got any respect?!”

“Hey bite me, fat Fruitloop! You and your pink princess!” Slick made his feelings known through a layer of steel and plexi-glass. 

“It’s salmon!” Ace hammered his fist down on the trunk and left a few shallow dents of his own. “God dammit, this day.” 

While he rubbed his red face, Sleuth shook his head up at Pickle Inspector, losing the sheen of his used car salesman’s charisma. His green, green eyes searched his friend for understanding and he spoke softly.

“C’mon, Pi, you know we can’t do that. This guy wants to stab everybody who looks at him cross-eyed. What’s he gonna do to us for keeping him in the trunk? What’s the rest of the Crew gonna do to us if they find out we have him?” 

Sleuth shut his eyes and shook his head, scratching at his chin. “No, it’s too risky.”

“We could drive him somewhere out of town, some real quiet stretch, one of us gets out, runs around and unlocks the trunk, then we peel off when he kicks his way out.” Ace suggested. 

“And add road rash to a c-concussion.” Pickle Inspector vetoed the idea. “Then they’d d-definitely kill us.” 

Sleuth pointed to Pickle Inspector and clicked his tongue, agreeing.

The kicking of the tail light was getting louder and Ace raised a hand to whack the top of the trunk again, then thought better of it. 

“If we give himmm back in one p-piece we mmmight be okey. Sleuth, you talk to him, tell him we’ll l-let him out if he p-promises nnnot to kill us.” It wasn’t much of a plan but so far his friends had only managed to concuss Slick and call Pickle Inspector to come watch them do it. 

“Pi do you really think Spades Slick would keep that promise?” Sleuth gave him a look of disillusionment mixed with concern that his friend might still be illusioned. 

“Quiet road, Sleuth unlocks him, we’re outta there.” Ace suggested again. 

“Why me?!”

“Why not you?”

“Ha!” 

There was one sharp, metallic tear and the tail light came free of the back fin of the Belvedere, clattering to the pavement. Slick’s foot got caught in the tight hole he’d made in the trunk of the car and then disappeared inside. The car rocked uneasily as he started squirming around. 

“Jesus,” Sleuth fussed with his hair. “There goes our air of secrecy.”

He stepped over to the kicked out light, looking in as the sapped side of Slick’s face jerked into view.

“Hey, uh, Spades Slick--” Sleuth gave it a shot and haunched down so he could look Slick in the eye while they spoke. “Listen we both know we’re not the ones who locked you in there so how’s about we work something out here? Have a parlay for letting you out.” 

“Hey Pompous Shitbird, how’s about you parlay this?”

Slick jabbed his flesh and bone arm out through the hole, giving Sleuth (and the rest of the Team by association) the bird. 

Problem Sleuth huffed and tossed his head, looking exasperated back at his teammates.

“Do you believe this guy?”

“Well,” Pickle Inspector pawed at his face with the hand that scrunched his tie and tugged a little too tight. He untugged it and let out a hoarse noise before muttering. “Nnnegotiations have started at least.”

“Mm,” Ace stood beside him with one fist on his hip and they watched Sleuth and Slick start a slap fight over Slick’s arm. Sleuth whacked him enough to get Slick’s wrist in both hands and started pushing his arm back inside the tail light. There was some jangling and spitting before Sleuth finally jammed the arm into the dark and then yanked his hand back with a yelp. 

“He cut you!” Pickle Inspector stood bolt upright.

“Christ! Augh, that kills!” Sleuth squeezed his hand and then shook it out, no blood or chopped fingers flying away. “He bit me! He bit me with those busted teeth of his, God it stings!”

Sleuth haunched down again and stared into the hole, speaking deliberately. “You’re a grown man! Why are you bitey?!” 

“Bite this!”

The hooked blade swung out of the tail light and Sleuth jumped away from it with another yelp. Then he followed the pattern of Slick’s swing, took a breath and reached for the knife with both hands. This started the slap fight anew. Sleuth grabbed for Slick’s wrist, keeping his hands safe at the periphery of what Slick could see through the hole in the trunk. Slick realized he wanted to take the knife away and swung all the harder, only to get caught and then yank himself back in the car. Now they were playing tug of war for the knife and Ace knocked a heavy hand against Pickle Inspector’s coat. Sleuth and Slick squawked and spat frustrated half syllables at each other as the other two talked. 

“We need two guys down here to keep him under wraps, Pickle. You think you could go up and let the girls know? We’re gonna need every brain we can throw at this thing.”

“Can I go inside and l-leave you with a v-violent mobster in your trunk?” Pickle Inspector asked, clarifying the situation for them both. 

“Well, somebody’s got to mind the store! Check the mail, see who’s called. Make it look like we’re not just out here guarding him.” Ace admitted. 

Pickle Inspector was stalled from bothering about Ace assigning him menial work by a vision. He was standing in his office, the curtains were drawn, he had a piping hot mug of tea in his hands that breathed warm steam on his face. The flowery smell of the tea complemented a lilting tune that played from his desk. The parking lot and the knife and the many, many mobsters he’d met today were all far, far away. 

“Sleuth,” he called to his friend. “I’ll go tell Dame and B-Broad.” 

“Yeah, alright. Look out though,” Sleuth glanced away from the slap fight and eased back, Slick’s arm disappearing back inside with the knife. Pushing a hand through his hair, Sleuth straightened up, tugged his ear and advised Pickle Inspector. “Dame might throw a shoe at you that’ll be meant for me. She gets real throwy about bad news.”

“I know, Sleuth,” Pickle Inspector assured him. “I’ve kn-known Dame just as long as you h-have.” 

* * *

Dame’s kitten heel flew over his ducked head and kicked hard into the wall behind him. Pickle Inspector turned and pulled the shoe from where its heel had sunk into the drywall, while Hysterical Dame stood shrieking behind him. 

“He says I get ‘throwy?!’ I’ll show him throwy, that dense lug nut doesn’t know from ‘throwy’ yet!-- Thanks Pickle.”

He came around Dame’s desk and handed back her shoe, stopping her as she was taking off the other one. Instead she accepted the first shoe and threw it into the wall again, where it stuck in the drywall higher than before. “Cheese and _crepes,_ what a guy!”

“So they really w-won’t chance letting Slick out?” Nervous Broad sat in one of the barrel-backed wooden chairs in front of her partner’s desk. She was reeling in the long strand of colorful glass beads that was her necklace, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and bouncing gently. Almost as soon as she settled in her seat she shifted around again to fold the other leg on top. Her lilting voice comforted Pickle Inspector even as it detailed the awful pickle they were all in. “What are we s-supposed to do? W-wait for the C-Crew to come looking for him?”

“I th-think if we explain ourselves,” Pickle Inspector tried talking his way into a real plan but he came up with nothing. “Mmmaybe, he’d listen?” 

He sunk into the other chair in front of Dame’s desk, glad to take a breather in Dame’s cozy office. Hysterical Dame and Nervous Broad rented their own suite directly below the rest of the Team, setting up their own small detective agency. Broad’s office was more to Pickle Inspector’s tastes but Dame had an abundance of cushions, doilies and comfortable antiques in lush, red stains to make the whole place feel warm, romantic and safe. And sharing the awful, awful news with his lady friends was taking a weight from Pickle Inspector’s slumped shoulders. 

Dame brushed passed him, coming back around to her desk with both kitten heels in her hand. Each heel was dusted with drywall. 

“Here, lemme get you something for that.” She said, patting his head like she could see the Gordian knot of anxieties in his brain. Dame chucked her shoes under the desk and then reached into its deep drawer and pulled out her office bottle. She took out one glass, fixed it with a couple slugs of bourbon and put it in front of Pickle Inspector. 

He picked up the glass and took a gulp and felt the warmth bloom in his throat, down into his chest, into his stomach. Savoring the feeling, Pickle Inspector sat back and thumbed the etched sides of the glass. 

“Thank you, Dame.” He said, watching her plop down behind her name plate, under her banker’s lamp, in her leather chair. 

“I suppose we’ll help you boys, officially like.” Dame said, casting her eyes at Broad with a red smirk on her charming face. “I’m sure they could use all the extra brain power they can get down in the parking lot.”

“Of course,” Broad nodded, leaving her beads in a jumble and reaching over the desk for Dame’s rolodex of phone numbers. “Dame? What was the nnname of the shaman who taught you to use b-blow darts? Do you think he’s free today?”

Pickle Inspector listened dopily while the ladies tried to recall. The Franklin Street detective agencies worked together quite often but it sure seemed like Dame and Broad were getting all of the really cool cases lately. 

“Gosh, getting a lights-out dart on him through the tail light would be a trick shot for sure.” Dame nodded and squinted. “Hell, I could try but I’d probably just take his other eye out. But you’re right, Steve could make that shot. But I think his girls have a pea-wee soccer game today.”

“Oh, drat.” Broad stopped flipping in the rolodex. Then she switched one leg over the other and started flipping through the rolodex in the opposite direction. “W-well, that would be just the eh-extraction plan, I suppose.” 

Pickle Inspector sat looking at the rest of his drink, wondering why one gulp was making him feel sluggish and sweaty. It was just barely too early to drink, sure, but today was hardly a day to stand on ceremony. Oh, but then again he hadn’t eaten breakfast...

“That’s wh-why I couldn’t remember it.” He mused at his geometric reflection in the etched glass. 

“What’s that, Pi?” Broad looked to him and Pickle Inspector brushed away what he’d said. On her face he read concern not only given The Team’s situation, but an awareness that something else was on his mind that he wasn’t mentioning. 

“Nnnothing, nothing.”

“Sorry but, you look a b-bit drawn, Pi.” Broad tilted her long, lovely face his way and beamed compassion and understanding from her pale blue eyes. Pickle Inspector would have liked nothing more than to give her the exact reason for his discombobulation that morning. But it was a bizarre and dangerous and trifling incident in lieu of having a ganglord trapped in Ace Dick’s trunk. If knowing about his morning didn’t unnerve her it would at least distract her from the real work of finding a solution for Slick.

“I mmmissed breakfast, that’s all.” Pickle Inspector gave her a regretful smile and shrugged. “Listen, I really ought to g-get upstairs.” 

He pushed himself up on the arms of his chair and wobbled to his feet. Reaching into the depths of his pockets Pickle Inspector produced the stack of envelopes he’d fished out of the Team’s mailboxes down in the lobby. “Call if you nnneed me. I’ll be b-back down after I get through with these.” 

No sense in splitting up the braintrust. Most of the Team’s muscle was occupied outside, after all, and the thinkers would work better for it. Just as soon as Pickle Inspector got his head on straight they’d find out exactly what to do. Or, well, he sure hoped they would.

“You’re not gonna finish her?” Dame picked up the drink she’d poured him and offered the last slug to Pickle Inspector. “It’s good for you, Pickle, you’ll get some color back.”

“I couldn’t,” Pickle Inspector backed out, ducking through the office door. “B-Back soon.” 

“Pi?” Broad rose from her seat and came after him, poking her head out into the hallway. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”

“Just, h-having a long mmmorning.” Pickle Inspector fussed with his tie while she fussed with her beads. “I’m going to make a cup of tea, take some time to d-decompress.”

Broad nodded, smiling softly after a moment. 

“It’s good to s-see you taking care of yourself, Pi.”

“Of course,” Pickle Inspector blushed helplessly at her concern and nodded. She was the sweetest, loveliest, friend he had and there was so much at stake. When they were safe he’d tell her everything and they’d laugh at the story of Hearts Boxcars almost picking up Pickle Inspector at the library. For now, Broad retreated into Dame’s office and Pickle Inspector stood listening to them brainstorm as he waited for the elevator. 

“Now we may not like it,” Dame was saying. “But what do you want to bet we could knock him out, like with gas? Y’know, nice and safe, and then--” A fist hit the top of her desk “--pop him one good one on the head and he gets amnesia?” 

“You might give him b-brain damage, Dame.” Broad reminded her. “But, say we had some ah-amnesia gas?” 

“Is that even a real thing?”

“W-well, it’s only chemicals. Just a few chemicals, I-I should guess.” Broad supposed. “How hard could it b-be to whip something up?” 

Pickle Inspector boarded the elevator, rose to the fourth floor and trudged across the mustard colored hall carpet. The door to the long, slim waiting room opened hollowly into darkness, he tweaked the press-button light switch and the dull electric strip light across the ceiling came on. Team Sleuth’s waiting room was little more than a row of empty chairs in front of the three doors into Ace Dick, Problem Sleuth, and Pickle Inspector’s respective offices. 

He slumped through his office door and tugged down the screen over the beveled glass with his name printed in tall black letters. With a sigh Pickle Inspector fell into his squeaky, tired pleather desk chair. 

As he leaned back and let the chair spin the faded, purplish, old lady wallpaper covering his office swirled around him and Pickle Inspector felt like he was being spun in a washing machine. The chair squeaked to a halt and he sat still again, closing one eye and letting the wash cycle come to an end. His empty, sloshing stomach warned off any more spinning. Pickle Inspector felt the furthest thing from drunk, the slug of bourbon had done nothing but solidify into a hot ball of lead that weighed down his sick stomach. 

He sat looking at the stacks upon stacks of folders and files and notebooks and book books and newspapers and boxes of boxes of papers that made up his desk. Somewhere in there, among wrap sheets and reports and receipts and citations and loose batteries and stamps and pens and pencils and mugs filled with loose change and bottle caps, Pickle Inspector had reason to believe there was a lost city of snacks. And he didn’t need a full trip to Atlantis, he only needed a scrap or two of its riches to soothe him.

After some sleeves rolled up, double armed digging he came up with a bag of granola, three Tootsie Rolls and an open, half eaten bag of Problem Sleuth’s favorite trail mix. Pickle Inspector tossed all of them together and ate what he guessed amounted to a breakfast while he waited for his electric kettle to boil. He called the Team’s answering service, there had been no calls for any of them, and then scoured his tea reserves for a nice, relaxing jasmine. This proved to be harder than he expected and he went through his many metal loose leaf boxes, his colorful paper tea tubes, his wooden tea chest, and finally found the very last bag of jasmine sitting alone in the shadow of his electric kettle.

That small miracle was enough for him to sit over his steeping mug marveling at this one spot of luck on such a crummy day. But it wasn’t enough to assuage the mood Pickle Inspector felt creeping up on him, especially now that he was alone. 

The specter of the Crew loomed in his mind as a shadow puppet show, three spikey articulated and armed puppets on one side with a bigger, darker shadow facing him. This one was a solitary shape etched with details to describe a broad, solid figure. The light behind it was softer, a flickering fire while the others had roaring pyrotechnics behind them that spelled out in bursts of every color light: ‘This Is Your Doom, Pickle Inspector!’ 

Well, he thought while sucking granola from between his teeth, if this was the day he was having then it was time to pull out the big guns.

He went to the dusty trunk that held his Uzi and sniper rifle, unlocked it and moved both guns aside to find what was tucked in an old sheet underneath them. Pickle Inspector set the cumbersome bundle on his desk, locked both guns away again and then pulled off the old sheet. 

His record player, along with a pile of 45s, small single records, all in familiar paper sleeves, sat waiting for him. The whole set had the air of a friendly bartender, ready to be confessed to after too much rye. It took some deciding but Pickle Inspector finally set Pete la Roca’s ‘Lazy Afternoon’ under the needle. The first two low, lonesome strums from the bass reset Pickle Inspector’s heartbeat and he let out a deep breath.

Sinking into his chair again, wheeling lightly to-and-fro behind his mountainous desk, Pickle fished the clutch of mail from his coat pocket. The piano wandered step by step towards the ceiling, a saxophone whining and meandering along behind it. Pickle Inspector opened a few bills, aided by the melancholy piano sparkling from the record player. The bills belonged in the shuffle of citations, overdue notices, fees and fines. They used to be in a folder but then business slowed down and the folder got lost in the papers, like everything did on his desk. It was all very organic, that way. He placed them on top of the ever growing stack, leaned away with his hands stretching wide after he set them gingerly on top of the mountain, and then yanked his tea out of the way when the bottom fell out and the whole stack slid across the bare two foot radius he’d elbowed out of the re-constructed, modernist forest around him. 

“Yeah, that’s about right.” Pickle Inspector leaned back in his chair with his mug against his chest, looking at the mess of papers. In the air above him the piano and saxophone moved out of time together, calling to one another phrase by phrase. He set the mug down and leafed through the rest of the mail. 

What wasn’t phoney credit card pre-approvals or the rare menu for a new local place left just two ads. 

One opened with a bold lack of a subtlety: 

**“ YOU ARE UNDER ARREST ! ”**

**Help Bring Crooks to Justice Through Scientific**

**CRIME DETECTION !**  
We have taught thousands this **intriguing, profitable,** **and pleasant** profession. Become part of a Midnight City tradition, be the flatfoot your City needs! Learn Finger Printing, Firearms Identification, Police Photography (No Police Involved) thoroughly, quickly, at small cost. Write for FREE “Blue Book of Crime.” 

Too little too late, Pickle Inspector already knew those disciplines perfectly well, and he had too many big costs to go around relearning things, even at small cost. The other ad dazzled him with its duotone color, crisp cold blue and a bright cadmium red emboldening its lofty opener:

**$ 500 to $ 2,500 a week**

**IN WORK THAT IS ALMOST ROMANCE**

Be a Radio Expert!

Pickle Inspector looked back at the printed radio expert who pointed out of the ad at him. Detective work had always carried a romance of its own for Pickle Inspector, though it had hardly moved him closer to either of the people he might share true romance with. In both cases he felt a friendship so close and unique that it was better not to mire it down with romance. Of course he didn’t love either of them any less, some things simply didn’t work out. 

He took a long look at the pointing salesman in the ad, promising him a life in work that was ‘almost’ romance. If he was honest (and he sure tried to be) Pickle Inspector knew that this salesman had never had an angry mobster trapped in the back of his car. As good as he was, Mr. Radio Expert probably hadn’t read the Blue Book of Crime, nor known the romance of a tangled mystery ironed out before its principal suspects. 

Sure, maybe he had a steady job and a steady someone to come home to at night but Pickle Inspector knew those weren’t life’s only considerations. When it wasn’t desperately dangerous, a life in Scientific Crime Detection was fascinating, rewarding work. And in a place like Midnight City, it meant a great deal to help average people when they’re only other recourse was corrupt, inept politicians, or corrupt, inept cops, or the brutal mob forces that ran the city. 

For as long as he still got to live it, Pickle Inspector would help people with his life. 

Now how would he help himself? 

The sparkling piano dimmed overhead and Pickle Inspector fell upon the only course of action available. To prove Team Sleuth was innocent of trapping Spades Slick they’d have to produce the guilty party. And, in this case, rather than exposing them within a court of law to a jury of their peers, they’d be offered up to the Midnight Crew as an alternative punching bag to Team Sleuth. Pickle Inspector knew it was wrong but he really hoped that whoever sapped down Slick and locked him in that trunk was a bad person. He couldn’t bring himself to turn in just any poor schmuck who’d fallen into this mess by accident or impulse. The same damn thing had happened to him, after all.

The music was dying out, the saxophone growling faint and exhausted from its sighed searching. The piano only kept time until it started to shimmer away entirely. 

His mind was made up in one respect, then. He would enlist the girls downstairs to help track down Slick’s assailants and once they were caught the Team could barter out of this dangerous web they were stuck in. If this was their doom, like the fireworks suggested, they’d go out searching for the truth in this crooked, greasy town of glimmering lies.

And he’d ask Sleuth to give him some pointers on his hard boiled idioms.

The luster of the fireworks around the shadow puppet show dimmed considerably as he planned. Now the three puppets were little more than stark shadows fading into the gloom of the sputtering dazzlers around them. The fourth, however, was warmed by the low firelight and Pickle Inspector watched him in the fullness of that light. His mind’s eye saw Hearts’s dark face become a scheme of black and amber. The long sideburns were soft curls of smoke and a warmth glinted from his gold eyes when he smiled. 

The needle skipped and sighed over the end of the record, burbling at Pickle Inspector to be turned off. He reached over and lifted the needle, guiding it back to rest at the side of the dais. As he felt the arm set in place there was a knock at his shaded door. His fancy beveled glass with the tall black script shook in the door the way it always did when someone knocked on it, and the screen wavered in place. 

Pickle Inspector put aside his daydreams and the mail and set down his cup of tea, then rose from his desk. 

“C-coming Dame.” Broad always knocked as softly as Pickle Inspector himself, and always on the wood of the door. But Dame didn’t share her scruples for his beveled glass, she figured anything that expensive could take a knock or two. 

Pickle Inspector opened the door and found Hearts Boxcars on the other side. This time there was no mistaking him. The charcoal suit, the shiny, wine dark shirt, the puff of chest hair was all as it had been but now the set of his jaw was fixed and hard. His big arms hung loose from knotted, tense shoulders and he kept his head low, the posture of an old boxer. 

“We’re closed.” Pickle Inspector spoke with deep sincerity, shaking his head and immediately closing the door.


	4. Case!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickle Inspector and Boxcars discuss a certain disappearance and come to an accord.

“Are you, now?” A big hand caught the edge of the door and gave it one good smack, knocking it out of Pickle Inspector’s grip and swinging it open. “Because it sounds like you’re just sitting in here playing records.”

The door bonked off the wall, dull electric light cut into the gloom of the daylit office. Hearts Boxcars moved out of the grey light of the waiting room, a big hand found Pickle Inspector’s chest and slid him back a couple feet with all the strength Boxcars needed to toss his hat. He brushed the door closed with his foot, keeping his eyes on Pickle Inspector. No other shadows swarmed in, but Pickle Inspector didn’t have time to wonder about that.

“That’s a funny thing to rent a whole office for.” Boxcars cocked his head and took in Pickle Inspector, whose eyes were luminous search lights. 

“W-well, these are mmmy off hours and I w-was just about to leave, so--” Pickle Inspector stepped around Boxcars, slipping between the big man and the desk. He reached a hand for the door and felt a different hand clap onto his chest again. Boxcars stopped him short and knocked him back. 

“I think you want to talk with me, Inspector.” Boxcars watched him evenly, eyes an auburn so deep they were almost black. “You remember who I am this time, right?”  
Pickle Inspector nodded his head slowly, returning Boxcars’s stare. 

“I do, Mr. B-Boxcars.” 

“Now that’s good.” Boxcars nodded and took a few sauntering steps into the office. He kept his eyes fixed on Pickle Inspector and only looked away when he didn’t make for the door again. Pickle Inspector watched him stroll in front of his desk, taking in the little office with its grandmotherly wallpaper, the filing cabinets and books and props and papers littered around, the ransacked tea station, the locked trunk under the single, tall window. Finally he turned back to Pickle Inspector and the exploded origami factory he called a desk. “Because I kind of worried, what good is a rent-a-cop who’s bad with faces?” 

Pickle Inspector put a hand on his desk, not looking at the locked trunk or the window out onto the back parking lot. He turned his squeaky pleather chair around to face him. There were plenty of possibilities, and one extremely bad reality, that could bring Boxcars here.

“This is about this mmmorning?” He guessed at one of the lesser evils of the day. It wasn’t something he would love to talk about with the head-goon of a violent criminal syndicate but it certainly wasn’t their worst option for conversation.

“Absolutely not.” Boxcars faced him between the dueling peaks of papers on the desk. He tapped the wide brim of his black borsalino against one wrist. “You go ahead and forget this morning ever happened, how’s that? It’s done, it’s gone.” 

“Then,” Pickle Inspector sat and squeaked around to face him with his long hands resolutely folded on the desk. “Th-There’s not mmmuch left for uh-us to say to each other, is there?”

Boxcars stood tapping his hat a meter more, then cast his eyes down from Pickle Inspector’s face to the sea of pages between them. He pulled out one of the two chairs in front of the desk and sat, the legs of the chair complaining under his weight. His hat landed lightly on one of the smaller peaks in the paper mountain range and Boxcars sighed out through his nose. 

“I’m here to hire you, Inspector.” 

“W-we’re not taking on nnnew cases, unfortunately--”

“Not even for ten thousand dollars?”

Pickle Inspector pinched his lips lightly between his teeth, leaned a little further on his desk and opened his hands. He’d been prepared to avoid any talk about a certain situation in a certain parking lot where some exact persons may or may not be engaged in some exact activities. He couldn’t prepare for hearing about ten thousand dollars. 

“Yeah huh, not so closed for business now, are you?” Boxcars’s eyes glinted at him, a shark’s smile on his face. “That’s what I thought. Now that’s ten thousand dollars for a day’s work, but it’s got to get done today, you understand?”

“No, nnnot at all.” Pickle Inspector shook his head. “You h-have to tell me about the case to h-help me understand.”

“Awwh, smart. That’s good.” Boxcars showed a hard boy’s disdain for the smart, his smile growing pinched. “I thought you were just the wimpy one and I didn’t figure a wimpy detective would do the job. Smart, now that’s a much better sign.”

“H-How mmmuch do I get paid to be i-insulted?” Pickle Inspector drew his brows down over his bony nose. 

“Nothing, you get that free.” Boxcars let out a laugh that was little more than a breath. He tapped the crown of his hat and then pointed the same finger at Pickle Inspector. “Does that lip get you in a lot of trouble, Inspector? I thought the other guy was the mouthy snoop, not you.” 

“He rubs off on you.” Pickle Inspector admitted. Boxcars was evidently in no hurry if he had time to chide Pickle Inspector while waving ten grand in the air. That being the case, Pickle Inspector guessed that he didn’t know how close he was to his trapped boss. All that boded well for Team Sleuth, as dicey as it was to have a member of the Midnight Crew sniffing around. It could all be misdirection but Pickle Inspector didn’t see why the Crew would operate with any finesse to get their kingpin out of Ace Dick’s trunk. “Were you g-going to explain this case, Mr. B-Boxcars?” 

“Funny guy.” Boxcars’s smile faded to a sliver of white in his dark face. “Here’s what I’ll say. You’ll get paid half up front, half when we’re done. I need this over by, call it midnight tonight, because after that there’s going to be hell to pay.” 

Boxcars knew that by midnight Droog would fully break out of his own house, hot wire his car and drive it straight into Felt Manor. If he didn’t find Slick there he’d pay every mobster, cop, rent-a-cop, man, woman and child in the city a visit. Hell would be paid, in cash, then returned by Droog without a receipt while he demanded to see Hell’s manager. 

“And I’d be doing, wh-what?” Pickle Inspector had a very good idea of what Boxcars wanted him to do. He imagined it had to do with finding someone, but until he was sure he played coy. 

“It’s a missing person case. And I mean this now, nobody can know about this.” Boxcars waved a big hand between them. “Nobody can know I’m here, nobody can know who’s missing. If word gets out about this I’m gonna have to do more than knock your door open.”

Pickle Inspector folded his hands together again, forcing himself to sit still.

“Do you always th-threaten the people you’re asking for h-help?” 

“Now and again.” Boxcars smiled at the comment, like Pickle Inspector had told him another joke. “But I don’t think you’d make that mistake for yourself. You’re a pretty quiet guy, after all.” 

Pickle Inspector couldn’t refute that. He also couldn’t look too long at Boxcars, because his stony gaze was direct and overwhelming and the charcoal suit was open, showing off the robust swell of his muscles under the shiny burgundy shirt. 

“I’mmm careful.” Pickle Inspector figured being a scatterbrained clutz didn’t count against that. He always meant to be extremely careful, whether or not he managed it. “A-And that’s why I c-can’t take your case. I-If something happens to mmme my partners need to know wh-what happened and why.” 

“Ten grand isn’t enough for you to keep it under your hat?” Boxcars leered at him. 

“Mr. Boxcars I-I can appreciate you have mmmoney to throw at your problem. B-But anything you want me to do for, for ten th-thousand dollars and t-total secrecy is mmmore than I’m willing to accept.” 

“So that’s it?” Boxcars cocked his head. “You’re not even curious? What detective turns down real money in Midnight City?”

“This one.” Pickle Inspector elbowed some of the fallen stack of bills out of sight. “If you c-can’t trust the c-confidentiality of my partners there’s nnnothing more to say.”

He needed to find out how involved the Crew was in Slick’s imprisonment and just what Boxcars was planning to do when he found his query. Everything he could do to keep the rest of the Team out of sight Pickle Inspector was prepared to do, but he couldn’t leave them without word on a day like today. Pickle Inspector was resolved to work Slick’s predicament backwards to save all their skins but no part of that meant disappearing just to be convenient for a mobster.

More than that, the Team needed to know the net was tightening around them. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Inspector, but you’ll never make me trust a bunch of snoops. If you’re too good for money then maybe we do this the other way.” Boxcars watched him with a professional goon’s hollow, black eyes. 

Pickle Inspector’s knuckles whitened as he gripped both hands together on the desk. He thought of the hand on his chest bouncing him back with no effort at all and then he didn’t like what his imaginative brain extrapolated from there. 

“Wh-What about a c-comprommmise?” He said with strain tightening his soft voice. “I’ll tell them I’m w-working for you, then the pa-particulars can stay b-between us.” 

Boxcars blinked, stoically watching Pickle Inspector’s wide eyed, pale face. Any arithmetic he did in his head was hidden by his practiced glare. Money or no money, he wouldn’t let Pickle Inspector weasel out of this case, and Pickle Inspector knew that. 

Pickle Inspector weighed his chances of escaping the office now that Boxcars was blocked by the desk. If he ran and ducked down the hall and into the stairwell and up a flight he might shake Boxcars, who’d assume he’d go running down toward the street. 

“Boy, you weren’t kidding.” Boxcars said at length, his mouth moving while the rest of his face was a dark, still mask. “That Problem Sleuth taught you a thing or two, huh? I didn’t figure you for any kind of talker.” 

“I-It’s not mmmy forte.” Pickle Inspector felt a bead of sweat drag down out of his hair, down his tall forehead, and slide down in front of his ear.

“I’ll take it.” Boxcars nodded his head softly, looking away from Pickle Inspector as if he were consulting his hat. “Your boys can know you’re out working for me. Everything else is strictly between us, and I do mean everything. If I hear a peep about any of this from anybody who ain’t you we’re gonna have a problem.” 

“Why peeps?” Pickle Inspector boggled. “What is it w-with today and peeps?”

“What?” Boxcars’s practiced look of calm power broke and for a moment Pickle Inspector saw the face of the father he’d met in the library that morning. His eyes were lighted and rich as he looked just as boggled as Pickle Inspector. 

“Ah--ah, nnno, sorry, that’s not--That’s nnnothing to do with you.” Pickle Inspector shook his head and shuffled papers around on his desk. “I’ve h-heard a lot about p-peeps today.”

Boxcars closed his mouth softly, clearly bemused. A wrinkle just above his brows shivered and then he sat back and let out a bark of a laugh, clapping a big hand down on his thigh. Pickle Inspector watched the first real smile since he walked in warm his face and tried desperately not to think about how solid and strong that thigh sounded. 

“Y’know,” Boxcars’s laugh brightened his voice. “The lippy oddball routine, it was getting to me, it really was. But that must be peanuts to being inside that head of yours. You’re a real funny guy, Inspector, except I don’t think you mean to be.” 

“I’mmm sure I don’t kn-know what you mean.” Pickle Inspector lied. 

Boxcars chuckled again and waved his hand to knock his comment out of the air between them. “It’s a good thing, don’t get squeamish on me now. You’re funny and you’re not as wimpy as I thought. That’s good too, you flatfoots need a little sand, I bet.”

Pickle Inspector wouldn’t call it ‘sand’ so much as ‘grit’ or ‘chutzpah’ or ‘dedication’ or regular, old stupidity. 

“I’m glad y-you’re having fun.” He didn’t exactly mind getting on Boxcars’s good side, even if it made him feel a little queasy. And so far Pickle Inspector had watched his face a great deal and one side didn’t seem any less striking than the other. No. That wasn’t what he was thinking about. “Getting b-back to your case…”

“Right, right. Now that I have your personal confidentiality,” Here Boxcars paused and reached a big hand between the towers of papery inconvenience that separated them. Pickle Inspector noted the dark skin on the back of his hand, a rosy palm hiding on the other side. A gold ring that Pickle Inspector could’ve worn as a bracelet winked at him from Boxcars’s pinky. He lifted his own spidery hand, looking down Boxcars’s arm and up his broad shoulder to his face. It wasn’t like he had any room to say ‘no.’ Boxcars had made that much clear. If he was smart and lucky he could find out how Slick got kidnapped by nightfall. Working backwards would save him time and once he was sure the culprits warranted it he could use them to bargain away the Crew’s ire. Well, he’d find the culprits and Sleuth would do the bargaining with the dangerous mobsters. 

He’d had plenty of that for one day and he’d only managed to get suckered into a case that endangered his whole agency. 

“Ten thousand dollars, Inspector.” Boxcars reminded Pickle Inspector, tired of watching him spiralling inside his big, brainy head. 

“And mmmy partners can kn-know what’s happening. W-Within limits.” Pickle Inspector stipulated in a hurry. 

“Yeah.”

“You won’t b-bother them unless s-something happens to me.” Pickle Inspector’s hand inched closer and closer to Boxcars’s.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” Boxcars was a better liar than Pickle Inspector but the detective knew a mistruth when he heard it. 

“And no killing.” His long fingers tightened into a bony fist and he held his breath, staring at Boxcars with the full force of his wide, white eyes. 

“What, like by me?” Boxcars raised an eyebrow, then inclined his head and nodded. “Yeah, okey sure. What, do you think I’m looking for someone just to kill them? And I’d tell a private cop that? And pay him ten grand to help me do it?”

Boxcars made a compelling case for the Crew being victims of a Slick-napping, rather than the assailants who locked him in a sedan overnight. 

“F-five thousand up front.” Pickle Inspector extended a finger to make one last point, his cold skin brushing Boxcars’s warm palm. 

“Inspector.” Boxcars gave him a wide, white stare of his own. “Yes or no. Right now.”

He held his eyes on Boxcars’s hand again, an inch from his own, and then closed the handshake. 

“ _Finally_. Thank you.” Boxcars’s grip was tight, his palm was firm and smooth. Pickle Inspector thought he must feel like a clammy paper towel to someone so strong. Boxcars couldn’t out-lift Ace, Pickle Inspector was sure, but he could’ve squashed Pickle Inspector’s hand easily. Instead there was a warm squeeze and then he let go and sat back down. 

His chair wheezed as Boxcars leaned back and touched his temple, looking at Pickle Inspector with a rueful smile. 

“I’ve never seen a guy try so hard to talk his way out of ten grand.” He scratched his mutton chops, carding his fingers through the black hair. “You’re a strange bird, Inspector.” 

“There’s lots to c-consider,” Pickle Inspector shrugged his bony shoulders up to his ears and then lowered them again. He reached for the comfort of his cup of tea, now cold but better than nothing. “I’mmm not the talker b-but I like to knnnow what’s going on.”

He scooped up the tea while Boxcars let out another chuckle. Pickle Inspector watched over the lip of his mug as the mobster reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. The glimmer of a gold chain hiding under his red collar and over the black tuff of chest hair waved at Pickle Inspector. He all but dunked his face into his mug. 

A black checkbook landed on the desk and Boxcars fished in his pocket for a pen. He pushed his round chin at the look of relief on Pickle Inspector’s face while he sighed and set down his tea. 

“Whiskey this early?” It was barely noon, after all. But then again, it was always Happy Hour in Midnight City. 

“Jasmine tea.” Pickle Inspector answered hoarsely, watching the pale check outlined by the black cover of the book. 

“What a life,” Boxcars scoffed as he started making out the check. “Renting a whole office just to play jazz and sip tea all day.”

“D-Don’t you nnneed my help, Mr. Boxcars?” Pickle Inspector crossed his arms and stuck his hands in his armpits. 

Boxcars laughed at the desk and glanced up to Pickle Inspector’s face. His eyes were a sanguine auburn for a moment, then his face hardened back into a mask. He brushed the fingers of his writing hand at the half-buried phone by Pickle Inspector’s elbow.

“Call your boys. Tell them you’re taking a job with me and you’ll be out for the day. Then we’ll talk specifics.”

“Of course.” Pickle Inspector dug out the phone and spun the dial round and back and round and back to call Dame’s office. Most of 5017 Franklin Street was cardboard with seven or eight layers of paint holding it up to form five storeys of offices. That meant that Dame’s phone ringing directly under Sleuth’s office sounded like the phone was ringing in the next room. Pickle Inspector waited for her to pick up and then cleared his throat. 

“S-Sleuth it’s Pickle Inspector.” He told Dame. 

“Ah, okey,” Dame sounded perplexed on the other line. “What’s going on, Inspector Incognito?” 

“Hearts B-Boxcars has approached mmme with a job and I h-have to take it.” 

“ _What?!_ ” There was a shriek and a ‘klunk’ from downstairs. “Pickle are you serious? He’s in your office right now?”

“Mmmhm.” Pickle Inspector turned in his squeaking chair to try and cover Dame’s hysteria, holding the receiver against his side as he wheeled around to face the shared wall with Sleuth’s office. “That’s r-right. It’s a v-very important mmmatter he’s got for mmme and I’ll b-be out working on it all day.”

“What could be more important than-- _oh_ , oh Pickle don’t tell me this is tied up with those knitwits out back.” 

“Th-That’s exactly right.” Pickle Inspector nodded and squeaked his seat some more. “T-Top priority, of course. I’ll, ah, I’ll b-be in touch b-by tonight.”

“No, wait Pickle-- Where will you be? Are you going to the impound lot right away? We can meet you there.”

Dame’s pragmatism made it so much easier for him to breathe. He hummed into the phone. 

“That’s p-perfect. Okey, g-goodbye.”

“Ohh, geez louise, Pickle, you be careful!”

He hung up and turned around and put the phone back into its niche of blueprints and spreadsheets and yellow book pages. Pickle Inspector collected a breath and felt the anxiety of this meeting ease a little. Soon he would be en route to the impound, he and the lady sleuths would build the case backwards and track down the assailants and toss them into the vicious jaws of the Midnight Crew and all would be well. 

Sleuth would be so thrilled with the story, and Ace would be so thrilled with ten thousand dollars. 

Boxcars was sitting across from him with the 45 of ‘Lazy Afternoon’ in his big hand, fingers holding the edges of the small record neatly. Pickle Inspector felt a shock of fear seeing a professional goon who’d already threatened him holding one of his beloved records. While he paled Boxcars waved the little record gently and cast a ruddy glance over the desk. 

“What’s a flatfoot doing with some taste in jazz?” 

“I’m sorry?” Pickle Inspector wanted to reach over and take the record and set it in its paper sleeve and tuck it in with its brothers and sisters on top of the record player, bundle them all up together and make sure no mobsters got to wave them around ever again. 

“I heard this coming down the hall.” Hearts looked at the 45 again and then fished around the record player for its sleeve. “Tell you the truth, maybe I stopped to listen a little. I never figured a snoop would know anything about Pete la Roca, did you have a mobster in the family who passed down all the good music?”

“You didn’t i-invent jazz.” Pickle Inspector spoke emphatically. “Mmmusic belongs to eh-everyone.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Boxcars waved the little paper sleeve and allowed the observation with a sly smile. “But we’re the ones who financed it, you ever heard of a guy named Frank Sinatra? He’s one of ours.”

“And Mr. la Roca is a lawyer, s-so what do you s-say to that?”

“Don’t remind me.” Boxcars slipped the 45 into its sleeve and shook his head heavily. His voice was bright again. “That kind of talent and the guy decides he wants to be a stuffed shirt the rest of his life. It’s unbelievable.”

“It’s a shame he d-doesn’t record more.” Pickle Inspector agreed. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Pickle Inspector found himself smiling and fought it down. He looked gravely at no particular part of his reconstructed forest and came back to the matter at hand.

“Now, Mr. Boxcars. About your mmmissing person.”

“Yeah.” Boxcars let out a heavy, grave sigh. He tore the signed check from the book and handed it across the desk. A long, delicate hand took it and Pickle Inspector sat back. He rustled in his thoroughly overstuffed pockets for something and then took out a small ring of keys. One was set into a lock and opened a slim drawer under the flat of his desk, for only the most important pieces of paper. He slipped the check away where it couldn’t get lost in the greater chaos, locked the slim drawer again and faced Boxcars. 

“Spades Slick has been missing since last night.” His demeanor had returned to the solemnity he walked in with. “So you see why I can’t have it getting around who I’m looking for. If the Felt or the Bocces or any other mob or some bent cop knew we were missing our leader, or he’s kidnapped somewhere, there’d be chaos.”

Pickle Inspector showed genuine surprise, pulled from the very real relief and anxiety he felt hearing Boxcars admit what was happening. He reached through his forest’s underbrush and found a not-very-full notebook with a pen stuck in its spiral binding. Pickle Inspector wrote Slick’s name and then his own rough estimation of his time of disappearance. Given the slept in, lightly greasy state of his clothes he had worn the same suit he was trunked in for a day, then overnighted on the trunk’s synthetic carpet for what could be around nine or ten hours. Putting his trunking at about one that morning. 

“Yes I see,” Pickle Inspector spoke slowly while he wrote. He turned the end of his pen to Boxcars, bouncing it between his middle and ring fingers. “I’ll nnneed to speak w-with the last person to s-see him. And, ah-any information you have about his p-plans last night would be inv-valuable.” 

“Well, the thing is the last person to see him is in a very homicidal mood right now.” Boxcars put Droog’s emotional state lightly. “There was a lot of talk about skinning people, Droog’s just not in a helpful mindset. I already got the important stuff from him, so we’ll move from there.”

“Is he?” Pickle Inspector felt a cold spike of fear split his chest. He’d lived in Midnight City long enough to know that anyone Diamonds Droog wanted to skin he always ended up skinning.

“Yeah, y’know, your friends sometimes they get in a mood and it’s skin this, skin that, I’m gonna skin these guys with a hot poker and make those guys walk on nails. That kind of thing. He’s fine, that’s just what he’s like when he’s wound up. We locked up his guns so he’ll be fine. Anyway, the kids have it covered.” Boxcars was the picture of relaxation, gossiping loosely about his crewmate and spinning both hands through the air. “But that’s why we need this done quick, you understand? He’s not gonna stay locked up so we ought to hurry.”

“Wh-why do you keep saying ‘w-we?’” Pickle Inspector said palely, looking for any distraction from the homicidal mobster keen for torture. 

“Huh?”

“‘We,’ y-you keep saying ‘w-we’re’ going to do th-this, ‘w-we’re’ going to do that.” 

“That’s because I’m coming with you.” Boxcars shark’s smile opened across his face and Pickle Inspector wanted to sink into the floorboards, drip down into Broad’s office and have her pour him out on her fainting couch. “What, you think I’m going to let you run off on your own with five thousand dollars? My friend is missing, Inspector, I’m going to see that you find him and I get him home safe.”

“W-W-Wait a second--” Pickle Inspector reached up a hand, fumbling on his desk for the lock to the slim drawer. “N-Now hang on--”

“Ah, sorry Inspector,” The shark’s smile turned cheeky as Pickle Inspector worked the drawer open and plucked out the check. “You should’ve said something before we shook hands.”

“B-But you--you didn’t s-say a-anything about that--and--Here,--it’s nnnot like we signed anything--Here.--”

“Didn’t I?” Boxcar’s looked at the check Pickle Inspector was jabbing at him.

“Here! Yes! M-Mr. Boxcars, y-you can have it back!”

Boxcars put up a big hand, rosy palm closing around Pickle Inspector’s hand so the check was smushed tighter in his fist. He pushed Pickle Inspector’s arm back across the desk. 

“You shook my hand, Inspector. You know how us family types get about that. Word is bond.”

“But, but you d-didn’t say a-anything about coming along.” Pickle Inspector said miserably, holding a check for five thousand dollars. “That’s h-hardly fair.”

“My money, my case, my rules, Inspector.” Boxcars crossed his arms cozily over his broad chest. “Wipe that look off your face, you’re going to do fine. You’ll do all the brainy stuff and you’ll have me for everything else. This’ll be the easiest your job’s ever been.”

Pickle Inspector shoved his fist in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to look at the check. 

“S-Sure,” He deflated, stuck between a boxcar and a brickhouse. “Easy…”

* * *

They rode the elevator down to the lobby, intent on a bar in Low Town. Pickle Inspector knew enough to guess Florian’s was one of the more normal bars in town, a place for everyday people to talk and drink without being bothered by the mob’s influence on nearly every part of the city. Low Town was, currently, disputed territory but that shouldn’t change much for the regular bars. A shake up in power could spell disaster for the dazzling casinos, cabarets and cat houses the mobs cultivated, and it certainly threw off the elaborate and rotten ecosystems of the dingey back alley bars where cronies and palookas and two-bit, snake-oil selling low-lives did business. But the regular folks in town would still need a decent place to drink. This was Midnight City, after all.

Exactly why a ganglord would take a meeting outside of his territory, in a place reserved for regular people puzzled Pickle Inspector. 

He thought it over to keep his mind off the deal he’d been forced to make. It helped him get out ahead of the thought of being stuck with Hearts Boxcars for the day. Just standing in the elevator next to him and smelling his fancy aftershave was troubling enough. What would Dame and Broad think when he never met them at the impound? How on Earth would he solve Slick’s disappearance without leading Boxcars right back here?

All the thought exercises in the world couldn’t change the future Pickle Inspector saw. Boxcars would rip his boss out of the trunk of the Belvedere, then the Crew would round up Team Sleuth, encase them up to their necks in cement and drop them in the harbor. 

Pickle Inspector supposed he’d have a lovely view of the shining citadels of the boardwalk casinos before he drowned. 

Beside him Boxcars was silently checking his phone. No news from Clubs. A new text from Tavros. 

‘Uncle Diamonds has been in the basement since you left’ 

‘Should we lock him down there?’

‘What’s he doing down there?’ Hearts typed back, holding his phone close to his nose to read it. Tavros’s replies came back one upon the other: 

‘Moving a bunch of boxes around’

‘Cleaning I guess?’ 

‘And yelling at the boxes’

‘He’s really mad at all the junk in their basement’ 

Hearts didn’t guess Droog would handle being locked in the basement by his children and nephews with any like grace. It would only speed up the clock on finding Slick, and if this gamble with the dweeby detective didn’t work out Droog would keep Hearts on his shit list for wasting time and money on top of bear hugging him. And of course, after his rampage, the kids would get _such_ a talking to. 

‘Let him be, he likes cleaning.’ Hearts advised his son. ‘Thanks for asking first.’

Tavros sent an animated emoji of a cartoon bull’s head mooing out a breath of relief then smiling cutely.

The elevator sank to the ground floor and Boxcars pulled the latticed metal gate open, pocketing his phone. Ahead the two low Spanish style arches that made up the lobby of 5017 Franklin Street opened towards the pale grey light coming in through the revolving doors onto the street. 

Under the exposed beams of the first arch there was a pair of benches set on either side of the kidney-bean shaped, glass top-table. A tall woman sat alone on one bench, wringing her spidery hands and bouncing one leg on the other. She looked back at them and stood, smoothing a skirt covered in worried wrinkles. 

Pickle Inspector was lagging behind Boxcars and stopped dead when he saw her. Boxcars took a step towards her then looked back at him. 

“Something wrong, Inspector?”

Hearts was getting used to seeing Pickle Inspector pale into a flop sweat, or blush bright red, or turn green and sickly. But now he saw his face turn grim and hollow, gaunt and sad with more than color could describe. He looked back at Hearts and shrugged his shoulders inside his two-sizes too big, one size too short trench coat. The heavy, rumpled collar almost swallowed his ducked head and Hearts thought he was turtling as he stalked forward. 

“M-Mr. Boxcars.” The tall woman reached them a step after Pickle Inspector. She got a hand around his arm and hung on tight. “I-If I could just b-borrow the Inspector a moment.” 

Hearts watched Pickle Inspector chew and swallow something he wanted to say, figuring this was someone precious to him. Someone he didn’t like meeting with a mobster in tow. He wagged his round chin at Pickle Inspector. “He’s on the clock, I’m afraid.” 

As nervous as she was this broad returned Hearts’s look with steel in her eyes. She kept ahold of Pickle Inspector, who touched her elbow and spoke up. 

“I’ll b-be very quick.” He said, pulling the two of them a few steps back towards the elevators. Hearts frowned but let them go, standing in earshot and watching dully. 

“W-We’re working a case t-together.” Pickle Inspector held his friend’s arm with one hand, pushing the other through his sandy blonde hair. He spoke with some strain to keep from spiraling. “So that’s h-happening. I’ll call when we’re d-done. It has to be o-over before mmmidnight tonight.”

Nervous Broad breathed in deeply and shakily through her nose, then sighed out. Her grip on Pickle Inspector’s arm tightened, tugging on him. He was grateful to tell her about this new wrinkle before Boxcars drove off with him. And he was terrified of Boxcars knowing the first thing about her. 

“He’s going w-with you?” Broad kept her back to Boxcars and her voice low. “Pi, wh-what’s going on?”

Pickle Inspector swallowed dryly and spoke deliberately. “I’m sorry, b-but I can’t take any other cases today. A-Anything you w-were working you’ll have to f-finish alone.” 

Nervous Broad hung onto him as he let go of her, her pale eyes glassy and her brow set. 

“You’re taking an awful risk.” She told him, not letting go until he put his hand over hers and pressed his thumb into her palm. 

“I-I know.” A shiver moved from the small of his back through his gut and up into his voice. “B-But I trust you. You’ll do great.”

She didn’t look any happier but her brow softened and her eyes blinked away worry for a moment. It was true, without him Broad and Dame could find Slick’s assailant and keep Sleuth and Ace from accidentally killing him. More hands made lighter the work, sure, but he knew they could hold their own without him. And maybe, if everything went completely right, he could simply keep Boxcars distracted while they hammered out the mystery of The Disastrously Appearing Spades Slick. 

“I have to g-go.” He balled his fist around her long, soft fingers and then let go. 

“I’mmm a thought away, Pi.” She let go at last and watched him step back over to Boxcars. Broad stood kneading the thin muscle of her arm while Pickle Inspector walked off with the Midnight Crew’s head goon. They made it to the door and Pickle Inspector froze, turned on his heel, and stalked back to her. Boxcars turned on him and barked something, putting up his hands in confusion. 

“Broad tell Ace to mmmove his car o-out of the sun.” Pickle Inspector was wide eyed and put both hands out to her. “He’ll mmmelt all his b-bobble heads.”

“Yes.” She shared his gaze and realized just how much of her day would be spent keeping Spades Slick alive. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” He managed to smile at her, shakily, then turned away again and walked out the front doors. 

“What the hell was that about?” Boxcars caught the edge of the revolving door and held it still, spilling Pickle Inspector out and into him. He bounced off Boxcars’s chest once, then regained his footing and squiggled out onto the street through the open inches between the mobster and the edge of the revolving door. The big man turned and followed him closely as Pickle Inspector bunched himself up in his coat. “You needed to tell your girl one last thing, Columbo?” 

Pickle Inspector shrugged his bony shoulders and tilted his blonde head on his swan’s neck, looking totally, knowingly, innocent. 

“I-I was only advising mmmy colleague about another colleague, it’s g-got nnnothing to do with you. A-Ace Dick just loves his b-bobble heads.” Now he was leading Boxcars, taking them far, far away from Franklin Street. Looking down the block he guessed Boxcars’s ride to be the enormous black pick-up truck with the round headlights and the toothy, silver grill. Stepping up to it he saw Boxcars reach for his keys. “And she’s nnnot ‘my girl.’ She’s a f-fellow investigator.”

“You think I’m blind or just dumb?” Hearts asked him over the hood of the Gladiator. “You two are a pair.”

Pickle Inspector put his hand on the passenger’s side door. Hearts saw his mouth droop into a frown and a forlorn grey came to his blue eyes. 

“Nnno, just c-colleagues.”

Hearts unlocked the doors and ducked into the truck. It didn’t mean anything but he believed him. The detective climbed in on the passenger’s side and sat with his long, long legs in a tangle against the airbag. Pickle Inspector spoke distractedly as he searched the sides of the seat for the lever to move it back.

“S-Some things just don’t work out...” 

Hearts watched him worming around trying to find the control for the seat. It wasn’t a graceful or delicate display but the lines of Pickle Inspector legs gave him something to think about besides the broad in the lobby. He glimpsed the morning paper still tucked behind Pickle Inspector’s seat. 

“Yeah, s’funny how things turn out.” Boxcars reached between Pickle Inspector’s thighs and found the lever underneath his seat. The chair shunted back and Pickle Inspector flopped against the leather. 

“R-Right.” He hung onto the sides of his seat, smelling Boxcars’s aftershave and the age of the leather now. “B-But she’s nnno one important.”

“How about this: she’s only a problem if she makes herself a problem.” Boxcars plugged the key into the ignition. “Until then we got bigger fish to fry.”

“Th-That works.” Pickle Inspector nodded. 

There was a moment and then:

“So why’s she call you ‘pie?’” 

He stared ahead, aware that he was reddening and that Boxcars was grinning at him. 

“I-It’s ‘pi,’ like, uh, mmmath,” He squirmed around with his new found legroom, pulled his seatbelt on, and faced Boxcars. “W-We should go find your b-boss.”

“Whatever you say, pie.” The Gladiator growled to life and they pulled off from the curb. “I just think it’s cute, is all.” 


	5. Florian’s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars and Pickle Inspector investigate a Low Town dive and have a brush with toughs, strangers and one very persistent bartender.  
> This chapter is a direct rip off of Raymond Chandler and the first person who can name every Chandler reference throughout this fic I’ll Venmo $5.
> 
> I’ve Never Been in Love Before, by Chet Baker: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=aawiJ74rHRc
> 
> Lonely Woman, by Sarah Vaughan: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmK-VNesQW0
> 
> Three Hundred Pounds of Joy, By Howlin’ Wolf: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UzHXBJKP72U

As they drove Pickle Inspector sat with his elbow on the window sill, staring out at the street with his fingers lined up along his lower lip and his chin in his palm. Hearts Boxcars drove and tuned the radio for something to fill the taunt silence between them. He tweaked the radio one way and another and was only rewarded with static or ads or synthesized pop songs written by computers and performed by celebrity test tube babies. Finally he told the radio he quit, tossed his hand back and tugged on Pickle Inspector’s sleeve. 

“Okey, smart guy, let’s see how good you really are. Find something to listen to.” 

He shook his open hand at the radio and Pickle Inspector turned to it like he hadn’t heard Boxcars fishing through the airwaves at all. Moving his elbow to his knee and sitting hunching with his mouth still covered, Pickle Inspector turned the dial. The radio honed in on a familiar voice sighing out a slow, heartfelt confession. 

Chet Baker bloomed out of the speakers:

_I’ve ne~~~ver been in love before—_

Pickle Inspector veered away from Chet like he was turning the whole truck around. He went hard in the opposite direction and surfed the lower stations until the warm swell of Sarah Vaughan’s alto came billowed out of the radio:

_Oh stars that shine above me,_

_Please send someone to love me!_

“Geez,” Boxcars shook his head and glared out the windshield while Pickle Inspector tuned back the other way.

“Nnnot very subtle.” He said between his fingers. 

He kept tuning until a deep, bright, electric guitar danced out of the radio, a horn section sighing around it while the drums kept a kicking beat. A deep voice with an edge like a bolt of lightning spilled out and they both ‘oohed’, Boxcars reaching his hand to stop Pickle Inspector’s. 

Howlin’ Wolf sang as Hearts sighed with relief: 

_—Three hundred pounds of heavenly joy,_

_I'm so glad that you understand,_

_Three hundred pounds of muscle and man,_

_This is it._

_This is it._

_Look what you get._

“This, right here. Finally, something good.” 

Pickle Inspector slipped his hand out from under Boxcars’s, sitting back while the mobster picked up the beat and drummed on the steering wheel. 

“Another favorite of y-yours?” 

“You kidding?” Boxcars smiled sideways at him and then allowed. “I guess you got some okey chops with the radio. Y’know, for a snoop.”

“How kind.” Pickle Inspector smiled despite himself, folding his hands together across his seatbelt. He watched the buildings roll by as they ebbed into Low Town. “So, y-you’ve no idea why Slick went out last nnnight?”

Boxcars shook his head. 

“He was real squirrelly about it, didn’t tell anybody a thing except that it was some important business of his.” 

“D-Does he do this a lot?”

“No. We’re usually real clear on plans.” Boxcars told him. “It ain’t like Slick to not tell Diamonds, especially. But like I said, it was something secret and important.”

“It’s j-just,” Pickle Inspector spoke between his fingers again. “Why would he mmmeet someone in a regular bar? A-All the way out here?” 

Low Town was a basin where Midnight City sloped down towards the bay. It was cut off from the glitz of the boardwalk by the working harbor, making it a hard, fishy smelling part of town. The few residential streets stayed quiet and empty these days, trying to stay out of trouble while the mobs snapped at each other for control. 

“What, like he should go waltzing into one of the Felt’s dives? Or a gastropub that cuts their drinks with motor oil like the Bocces run? I say he was lucky to find any place outside of downtown that served real liquor.” Boxcars saw the sense in Slick coming here, even if that was all he saw.

“But, why h-here specifically? Who would he meet here that nnneeded so much privacy, s-so much secrecy?” 

“I guess,” Boxcars thought about it. “Could only be somebody he didn’t want to be seen with.”

“I-I don’t suppose he’d tell you if he were mmmeeting Ms. Snowman?”

Boxcars’s eyes widened and he stared grimly out the windshield. 

“You ought to keep the supposing to yourself, Inspector. If Spades is carrying on behind Diamonds’s back we’re all doomed. He’ll kill us for for telling him and then Spades for doing it and then end up ripping the universe a new one trying to kill her.”

“It’s only an i-idea.” Pickle Inspector added. “B-But you don’t think it’s l-likely?”

Here Boxcars thought for a moment and then shook his head. 

“Spades finally gave her up when Diamonds said he and Slick ought to get married. ‘For their taxes,’ he said. It’s, uh, not the most romantic thing but it makes ‘em both happy.”

“They got mmmarried for tax reasons?” Pickle Inspector knew better than to ask about a mobster’s taxes but he still couldn’t resist.

“It sounds worse than it is,” Hearts looked over to him. “They’re neither of them real romantic guys but they love each other. The kids made the real difference, once there’s family to consider your priorities change. And god knows Diamonds could only propose to someone, even Spades, if he thought he’d get some money out of it. Of course, you didn’t hear any of this from me.” 

“Th-That’s so…” Pickle Inspector thought it was pragmatic and odd and fitting and even a little funny. “Sweet? Nnnot very sw-sweet but…”

“Sweet enough, right?” Hearts understood Pickle Inspector’s befuddlement. “I could never do it like that but it suits the two of them fine. Anyway, I don’t figure it was that kind of thing, whoever he was meeting.”

They turned from the harbor and the truck slowed, rolling down the empty block looking for Florian’s bar. 

“Whatever it is, it’s gotta be strictly business.” Hearts spoke slowly, eyeing his side of the street. 

“There, uh-upstairs.” Pickle Inspector pointed out a neon sign sitting dark and gloomy in a second story window. They parked in front of the featureless street door. It showed no indicator of being a bar, apart from the signs in the window above. The neon sign reading ‘Florian’s’ was turned off but a paper ‘Open’ sign hung next to it. 

“Ah, b-before we go in--” Pickle poked himself in front of Boxcars when he reached for the door. “You’re armed, r-right?”

“Sure.”

“G-Great,” Pickle Inspector’s long hand spread out between them. “Please, g-give me your gun.”

Boxcars looked from his pale piano player’s fingers to Pickle Inspector’s face. The bug eyed, earnest look on his face almost hid the fact that his cheeks were hollow, his was jaw set. 

“Inspector,” Boxcars spoke through his nose. “You don’t really expect me to hand you my gun?”

“M-Mr. Boxcars wh-why pay me if you aren’t g-going to try things mmmy way?”

“Giving you my gun’s got nothing to do with that.”

“If you’re nnnervous then b-by all means keep it. I j-just don’t see why you’d hire a detective and then go about this the mmmobster way.”

“There’s that lip again.” Boxcars flashed his teeth and shook his head. “Do I look nervous to you, Inspector?”

Pickle Inspector big blue eyes moved from his face all the way down to the pavement and then came back up. 

“Well?”

“Nnno. You don’t. B-But you also don’t look like a man wh-who nnneeds a gun to stay safe.”

“Tricky, tricky. No one can guess what’s coming out of that mouth, huh? Least of all you.”

Here Pickle Inspector shrugged, tilting his head and pouting his lips in a big eyed, innocent, blonde shrug. The big coat sank over his shoulders and he held his spot in front of the door. His hands spread out airily between them. 

“A-All I’m asking is that you follow mmmy lead. Get your money’s worth, a-as it were.” 

Hearts scoffed and shrugged and fished out his keys again. 

“Alright, already. But you’re not losing _my_ gun in one of your pockets.” Boxcars pushed his chin at Pickle Inspector’s coat, which matched his desk with its innumerable amounts of crap exploding out from every nook and cranny. 

He opened the truck, shrugged off his jacket and unclasped the chest strap from his shoulder holster. The holster loosened from its place against his ribs, he pulled it off his arm and stowed the whole thing next to his other piece in the glove compartment. Boxcars came back over to Pickle Inspector, putting his jacket back on and settling his lapels.

“How’s about we get to it?”

“S-Sure.” Pickle Inspector’s eyes zipped around a few locations and he turned and looked at the featureless door.

“What’s the matter?” Boxcars pushed on the door with his thumb. It opened onto a dark stairway with saloon doors at the top. A pale yellow light hung over the doors and there was the sound of humanity behind them. “Overthinking already?”

Pickle Inspector lifted his head and shook it, the fingers of both hands taking turns squeezing each other. 

“Just trying to b-be careful.” He said. Boxcars reached out a hand he could have sat in, took hold of Pickle Inspector’s lapels and moved him through the door. 

“Be as careful as you want, pie.” Boxcars lifted him up two steps and then climbed easily behind him. He got to watch Pickle Inspector’s ankles and the rare glimpse of a knee as they climbed, his long trench coat blocking a view of anything more. “As long as I see some results.”

Pickle Inspector took the shallow stairs one at a time, grateful that Boxcars couldn’t see his face, patting his lapels flat. 

Florian’s was one long, narrow room with thin light peeking in from its single window. There was a bar along the right hand wall, a bartender alone behind it. On the other side of the room a pool table had been slanted into a corner to make room for a long painted black rectangle on the floor, a simple frame of unpainted, new wood built around it. The rest of the room was small, round tables. 

A pair of men stood at the pool table, playing an awkward game without elbow room to aim and glowering at the three men on the far end of the painted rectangle. They glared back, one of them making a big show of laboriously bowling a sturdy wooden ball down their pitch, out of bounds and over one pool player’s foot. 

“God dammit--” the hurt pool shark jerked back and wobbled dangerously before managing to use his cue as a cane. His buddy glared but said nothing. Everyone turned to the saloon door as Hearts Boxcars and a noodly snoop walked in. The limping pool shark tried to put his anger together with their collective distraction. He leered at Boxcars, slowly easing his weight back on his hurt foot, and stood with the rest in a cold silence.

“I thought you said this was an okey place.” Boxcars said under his breath, taking in the crowd of players. 

“I-It used to be.” Pickle Inspector moved passed him towards the empty bar, sparing a glance at the players before he walked away. “This is what happens to r-regular places in a mmmob town.”

“First la Roca and now this. Inspector,” Boxcars followed him to the bar and bonked his knuckles off Pickle Inspector’s shoulder. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

Pickle Inspector leaned with his elbows on the bartop, Boxcars put his back against the edge of the bar and his foot up on the railing along the floor. 

“It’s nnnot about liking ah-anyone. It’s about what’s b-best for the city.” Pickle Inspector glanced up at the long mirror on the back of the bar. The reflections of the bottles framed the two factions of players. The pool sharks were watching them and chalking their cues. The bocce players all stood on one side of the pitch. One of them tossed the small, white jack down the field to start a new game. With that done they all stood and watched the newcomers. Pickle Inspector spoke softly to Boxcars. “These p-people had to p-pick sides when the mob moved in on them.”

“Oh yeah?” Boxcars cast a look at them directly, moving his eyes steadily down the length of the far wall. His gaze was returned with spite, pool cues and bocce balls braced in knotted hands wishing for a rumble. “That’s sad, they seem like real great guys.”

“Nnno matter wh-what they’re like,” Pickle Inspector kept his head low and spoke softly. “They’re still people.”

“Listen, Inspector, I don’t disagree.” Boxcars leaned an elbow on the bar next to him, turning his body towards Pickle Inspector. “But just being a person’s kind of a low bar, ain’t it?”

Pickle Inspector combed his hands through his hair. 

“Mmmaybe you let me ask some questions.” He said in a voice only Boxcars could hear. “L-Let’s find your friend, then we can t-talk ethics.”

He wasted no more time, waving to the bartender, who had stayed at the far end of the bar since they walked in.

“You two here to spend some money?” The bartender came down and didn’t stand close enough to serve them. He was a thin, reedy and tired looking man. “Because otherwise this ain’t the place for you.”

“Two wh-whiskey sours, please.” Pickle Inspector nodded to him. 

He moved away and didn’t look like he was doing much about their drinks. Boxcars watched that and then moved his eyes back to the players. The bocce players were muttering amongst themselves, slowly bowling through the new round. The pool sharks spent most of their time missing shots and ‘clunk’ing their cues against the wall. 

“You asked the heck out of those questions, Inspector.” Boxcars said. Pickle Inspector pushed Boxcars’s arm. 

“L-Let me work.” He was watching something at the far end of the bar where the bartender was doing nothing. The detective fished out his wallet and took out a few bills. Putting them in a neat green pile on the bar top and pinning them down with his hand, Pickle Inspector watched the bartender. He noticed the money and then turned away, fixing something without touching the whiskeys on the back bar. The bartender came down and put two stout glasses of sour mash with one ice cube apiece in front of them. 

“Thank you. Nnnow can I ask you a question?”

The bartender pulled on the money but Pickle Inspector was leaning all of his weight on it and it didn’t budge. He grimaced and rolled his eyes and nodded. While he talked to them he watched the players across the room. 

“Yeah, alright.”

“You’re open at nnnoon on a Saturday, isn’t that a little early for a b-bar?”

“Yeah well.” The bartender looked at him strangely, working for an answer. “We’re starting brunch service, so, gotta get everything prepped. For brunch.”

Pickle Inspector smiled and hummed innocently and let go of the money. 

“Alright, thank you.”

The bartender counted it, sucked his teeth and shoved the bills in his pocket. 

“Seven dollars just covers your drinks, cheapskate.”

Pickle Inspector nodded again and raised his glass. He took a gulp of lukewarm sour mash, winced, and the bartender moved away again. 

“Where are you going with this, Inspector?” Boxcars looked away from the far wall to see Pickle Inspector squinting and chewing his lips. 

“If he w-was here, maybe the b-barman helped move him.” His voice was hoarse. “He’s waiting b-by the phone, see?”

Pickle Inspector faced Boxcars, tilting his head a little to the far end of the bar. Sure enough, the bartender was back at his post next to a landline made of heavy, pale green plastic.

“Open early, waiting to be paid off.” Boxcars closed his eyes and nodded. He went back to watching the crowd of players. They were getting tired of standing around. “So why all the mooks?”

“They were here b-before us. And j-just here to drink a-and play games, I’d guess.” Pickle Inspector tried to make Boxcars see it. “Boxcars if I’mmm right we only have to wait f-for his contact to show up.”

“And you think everybody can wait that long?” Boxcars cut his eyes at Pickle Inspector, his head easing down on his fat neck. His shoulders were knotting again, anticipating a fight. Pickle Inspector took that in with his indelicate stare, then moved it away with a slow turn of his head and looked at nothing on the back bar. 

“I-If you want to s-spoil our chance here I c-can’t stop you.”

Boxcars raised his eyebrows and watched Pickle Inspector pick up his drink again to punctuate his point. Before he forced himself to sip it Boxcars reached over and plucked the glass out of his hand and put it down. He finally turned from the players, elbowing onto the bar next to Pickle Inspector and glancing at their reflections in the mirror. 

“Okey, Inspector, okey. I’m following your lead.” 

He picked up his own sour mash and drank, holding the stout glass up and noising while he swallowed. 

“See?” He kept his eyes closed and put his drink down next to Pickle Inspector’s. When he opened his eyes Pickle Inspector was watching him again. “So now we stand around?”

“There’s a-always some of that, yes.” Pickle Inspector wouldn’t lie. His eyes moved to the bartender again. “B-But if he uses that ph-phone you can take it from him.”

“So much more fun than a bar fight.” Boxcars rolled his eyes. 

Behind them the limping pool shark finally sank two and punched the air, still leaning on his cue. 

“About time.” His friend said drearily. 

A few of the bocce players offered lukewarm golf applause. The hurt shark sneered: 

“What, you think you’re so much better? How do you even keep score, you toss your little balls around and whichever one is closest to the other one wins? It’s stupid! It doesn’t take any skill, not like pool. And I’m sinking ‘em with no room and a bad foot, I’m like Kerri Strug over here. Show some respect!”

“You got a gold medal in women’s gymnastics?” One bocce player asked.

“No, I said I was _like_ her, get your ears checked.”

“I don’t know if I could stand seeing you in a leotard, friend. You’re not plucky or blonde enough.” 

The pool shark reddened. 

“You take that back--”

“Maybe stretch over at the bar but you? Nah, too doughy.” 

Boxcars looked at Pickle Inspector, whose eyes swam in his head as he continued to look at nothing.

“S’that all you make of them?” The pool shark leaned on his cue now, eyeing the faces of the other players. His buddy leaned against the table, trying to aim and listening instead. “First it’s you mugs, now the Crew’s nosing in? Low Town just ain’t that big, now is it?”

The bocce players hemmed over that, all eyes watching the men at the bar. The bartender took it all in, Pickle Inspector watched his hand moving from the green phone to an old cigar box sitting in the shadow of the bar. He took something metallic out of the box and pocketed it. 

“No,” one of the bocce players said heavily from across the room. “It really ain’t that big.”

Boxcars let out a sigh through his nose and pushed his chin at Pickle Inspector. 

“What’d I tell you?”

“They’re j-just drunks.” Pickle Inspector said in a breath, seeing darkness clouding Boxcars’s face. “Nobodies, forget themmm--”

“What’s that, stretch?”

They both turned as the two pool sharks broke from their table and came across the room. The hurt shark took the lead, his cue ‘thunk’ing on the floor with each step. Pickle Inspector gripped the edge of the bar with both hands and then pushed off of it, putting himself between the sharks and Boxcars.

“S-Sorry, I think there’s beennn a misunderstanding.” Hearts watched the back of Pickle Inspector’s rumpled collar bounce up and brush his mop of sandy hair. The shrugging shoulders inside the big coat gave away how slim he was and Hearts moved away from the bar to stay close. Both sharks convened on Pickle Inspector, closing on him from right and left. His head ticked between them, watching as he stopped short and stood stock still. “W-We’re just here for a drink. We don’t want any t-trouble.” 

“See, I could swear I heard you talking about us since you waltzed in here.” The limping shark gave Pickle Inspector a squint and then turned his bitter stare on Boxcars. “And now we’re just a bunch of drunk nobodies? Well who the hell are you, coming into our end of town?”

“Juh-Just thirsty p-patrons.” Boxcars didn’t need to see his face to know he was doing his boggling, blonde dope routine. The bocce players started crossing the room, liking their odds. Five against one and a pool noodle wasn’t terrible, Boxcars could admit. “I ah-assure you, I mmmispoke. You all seem v-very nnnice.”

The bocce players filled in behind the sharks and the man leaning on his pool cue bent forward to get in Pickle Inspector’s face. 

“Do we, flatfoot?”

“Alright, Inspector.” A bear’s paw reached around and palmed Pickle Inspector under his ribs. Hearts swept him back and set him against the bar with one motion of his arm, taking the spot he’d vacated between the sharks. “You’re a good guy, I get it. You don’t have to keep showing off.”

“You knnnow that’s not it.” Pickle Inspector’s long hands spread out of the edge of the bar again, his arms holding up his bony weight. “What happened to f-following my lead?”

Boxcars shrugged and pouted and pushed his hands vaguely at the players. 

“These guys happened. Now do you want to do this part, or will you trust an old pro?”

“If y-you’d just talk we c-could--” 

“Are we doing this or not?!” The hurt pool shark saw a perfect cheap shot. He swung his cue up in both hands and dropped one shoulder and broke the pool cue across Boxcar’s chin. 

There was a muttered ‘ooh,’ from the other players. The shark smiled from the millisecond he felt his cue snap to the millisecond he saw Boxcars’s jaw set. His head moved maybe an inch with the blow, and then it was his turn. The shark’s face was level with his hand so Boxcars smacked his palm over it, closed his fingers around the back of his skull and picked the shark up by his head. He was pulled a foot off the ground and let out a high, toothy, mechanical breath while he clawed at Boxcars’s hand. 

The other shark looked pale, back peddling instead of protecting his buddy and Boxcars didn’t think that was so swell. He threw the hurt shark into his friend and they connected soundly and looked out for each other in a heap on the floor. 

As they fell the bocce players rushed him. Two connected while the third side stepped the bowled over sharks. One latched onto his arm like Boxcars was supposed to let him swing off it and the other threw a punch that landed half on his ear. The jarring pressure and sound didn’t help his aim but Boxcars didn’t need it anyway. He balled a fist and threw it into the puncher’s face, feeling his whole head rattle as the cartilage in his nose gave way. The other one he grabbed by the belt and yanked off his arm, sending him toppling into the puncher and the both of them over a table. 

The third bocce player looked at the fallen bodies around him and hung onto the heavy wooden ball he’d brought to the fight. Boxcars had a red mark going from his chin up his cheek and he tugged on his ear and then looked just fine. 

He dropped the ball and scrambled towards the stairs. Boxcars stepped over, picked up the ball and watched him running for the saloon doors. Now he did need to aim. He cocked his head, leaned back, dropped his knotted shoulder and followed through, pitching the ball into the running man’s head. 

It connected with a meaty noise and the man fell to the floor with a sigh, collapsing in front of the saloon doors. 

A new person stood in the doors as the man fell, and they stood a while looking at the freshly dispatched players all around the bar. Their face was thoughtful, black eyes moving from the players to Boxcars, to Pickle Inspector, and back to the bartender. They had shoulder length hair, a suit of dark grey tweed and a pug nose that looked like it had been broken and set a few times. Pickle Inspector noticed the bartender coming down towards them and finally looking engaged. On the floor the sharks wormed around painfully, the bocce players turning miserably into the crashed over table. Boxcars eyed the pug nose, who whistled lightly and pouted their lips. 

“Hell of a showing, big guy.” They took their hands from their pockets and clapped a few times. “I’m gonna guess everybody deserved it?”

Boxcars huffed, his shoulder loosening only a little. 

“They wanted to make something of my being here.” He told the new tough. “What about you?”

Pug Nose shrugged, eyes blinking into a practiced calm. 

“No accounting for stupid, right?”

“Right.” Boxcars glanced at Pickle Inspector, who stood at the bar with his hands spread on the wood. His thin face was holding back something Boxcars couldn’t guess. 

One of the pool sharks, the one with both feet working, untangled himself and stooped upright. He didn’t look at anyone, just leaned his hurt body towards the saloon doors. Pug Nose stepped aside and they all listened to the man go clattering down the stairs. His friend came around slowly, the other bodies on the floor moving towards consciousness. 

“I’m not one to intrude,” Pug Nose kept their eyes on the mobster and the detective, scarcely noticing the bartender, who stood by touching his pocket and wetting his lips. The other shark dragged himself up, looked around the bar with his mouth hanging open and then slinked out after his friend. “Say I take a drink somewhere else today? You fellows enjoy yourselves.”

They turned out the saloon doors and were gone. They made all the noise of a shadow moving over grass. The doors didn’t swing behind them.

Pickle Inspector and the bartender both let out a rough sigh and Boxcars frowned at them. He stepped up to the bar, seeing the detective cover his mouth with a long, pale hand, his brows low over his nose. 

“What? You think standing around would’ve gone better?” Boxcars elbowed up next to him. The two bocce players ached up and out, having to drag their unconscious friend through the doors and down the stairs. 

“I’ll say.” The bartender closed on them. “What do you think you’re doing scaring away my business?”

“Maybe you want to remember who you’re talking to.” Boxcars growled at him, his sharp teeth gleaming grey in the dim light. 

“Let’s say I do remember.” The bartender grabbed at his pocket, his eyes changed, his wrist locked and Pickle Inspector lunged. His bony hands closed around the bartender’s wrist and he twisted. The gun wobbled and Pickle Inspector snatched it away.

“Son of a bitch--” The bartender held his wrist and glared at him. “God, what’re you made of? Tissue paper and legos? You got the most brittle fingers in the damn world!”

“See? Th-This is wh-why I don’t just throwww people around.” Pickle Inspector held the snub-nose .38 up. It was greasy black, cheap and heavy but it was loaded and cocked. “S-S-Sometimes they’ve got th- _these_ on themmm.”

“Jesus,” The bartender kneaded his wrist and screwed up his face, turning to Boxcars. “He’s got a lip on him once he finally spits it out, huh?”

Pickle Inspector’s triumphant shoulders went slack and he distracted himself with rustling a handkerchief out of his coat, balling the little gun up and pocketing it. Boxcars leaned his elbow on the bar and huffed softly, playing the whole scene again in his head. 

“Hey,” he said, giving the bartender a friendly pat on the chest. “That’s pretty funny. You’re a funny guy, aren’t you?”

The bartender smiled, not knowing if he should, and nodded. 

“Yeah sure, I’m plenty funny.”

“Yeah, what’s the funniest part about him?” Boxcars bobbed his head at Pickle Inspector, who kept his face turned away from them.

“It’s, uh, he shoots his mouth off but it doesn’t work that good. His mouth, I mean.” The bartender explained. Hearts nodded and smiled and swiped his hand hard across the back of the bartender’s head, clunking him loudly off the edge of the bar. He peeled his forehead back up, squinting and groaning with a fresh red mark across his face. 

“That ain’t funny, who raised you?” Hearts barked at him. “Now lose the attitude and let’s have some answers. The Inspector’s got some questions,”

Hearts raised an eyebrow and a hand to Pickle Inspector, who nodded, watching the whole scene intently. 

“O-Oh, yes, of course.”

“So go ahead and answer them. If you don’t I’ll have to ask the questions and I’m not as nice as he is.” Hearts finished. 

The bartender looked dazed and bitter, leaning unsteadily on the bar. He nodded, grinding his teeth. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Ask me a question.” He nodded and sniffled, blinking his eyes rapidly and touching the knot on his forehead. He winced, slowly focusing on Pickle Inspector and keeping his body bent towards the floor. 

“That tough in the g-grey,” Pickle Inspector poked his head at the door, his hair bouncing. “Who do they work for?”

The bartender squinted and shook his head. 

“They’re a liaison, inter-mitten type. Don’t work for anybody and so they’ll work with everybody.”

Pickle Inspector had to swallow that one. Midnight City was full of people keen to make money as intermediaries for the many violent mobs. Sometimes they kept their hands clean, usually they didn’t.

“Did they mmmeet S-Spades Slick here last night?”

Nothing changed in the bartender’s face. He only watched Pickle Inspector and reached his right arm down for something under the bar. 

“God--” Pickle Inspector lunged again and Boxcars craned his neck to see the bartender and Pickle Inspector grapple for a long, heavy shape hidden under a towel. Spidery hands reached for the bartender’s wrists and missed by millimeters. The bartender grabbed the stock and pulled the sawed off shotgun up and Boxcars ripped the gun away from him.

“Like this?” Boxcars held the sawed off by the barrels, snatching it across the bar and looking over to check his form with Pickle Inspector. 

“Yes! B-but, nnnever grab it by the b-barrel if you can avoid it.” Pickle Inspector told him, staring at the sawed off that had almost been pulled on him. He turned back to the bartender. “These things a-are illegal, you know.”

“Yeah, well, personal property and all that. My right to big guns, whatever it is.” The bartender spoke evenly, eyeing them both and standing without moving a muscle. “Anyway I didn’t work last night, so.” 

He shrugged his shoulders and tried inching away. Boxcars turned the sawed off in his hand, reached out for the bartender and dragged him back. 

“Okey, you had your shot and more. You didn’t do it the nice way so now we gotta do it the not nice way. I’m gonna need your hand.” 

The bartender wrenched against him, holding his shoulder and pulling as hard as he could to get out of Boxcars’s grip. He didn’t gain an inch. Boxcars held his wrist and planted the bartender’s hand flat on the wood of the bar. He held the stock of the sawed off a few inches above his knuckles. 

“W-Wait-- You wanted to know about Spades Slick? Th-They were all here last night, him and the gendery one and the little guy--” The bartender whined, shaking against the bar. 

“Nah, we’re not doing that now.” Boxcars shook his head. The bartender yanked against him and got nowhere. He moved the stock of the sawed off carefully, getting the best angle on the bartender’s knuckles.

“C-C’mon, I need my hands!” The bartender’s reedy voice was winding tighter and tighter, sweat beading his face. Pickle Inspector stared, about to say something when Boxcars winked at him and then he couldn’t say anything. 

“Pi, you know what my favorite Christmas play is?”

“Wh-What?” Pickle Inspector looked extremely boggled. Boxcars raised the stock over the bartender’s hand.

“The Nutcracker.” 

The bartender let out a squeal and Hearts moved the stock lightly through the air, smiling sublimely at Pickle Inspector. There were no cracked fingers, just some shards of the bartender’s pride around his feet. Hearts saw Pickle Inspector let out a harsh sigh, then rub his face and cover his mouth as he chewed down a breathy laugh.

“Had you going, huh?” Hearts tucked the sawed off under his arm and held the bartender in place. 

“Mmmaybe a little.” Pickle Inspector muttered between his fingers. He took a breath, moved his hand and turned his searchlight eyes on the bartender. “S-Spades Slick. Wh-who was he with?” 

“I don’t know, they’re impossible to keep straight.” The bartender shook his head and squirmed. “He was here, okey? He had four or five cups of gin with Genderlicious and some guy and then they took him out through the back stairs.” 

“You d-drugged him?” Pickle Inspector knew that was wrong. 

“No, well, yeah, technically alcohol is a drug, so yeah. But he wasn’t any more poisoned than that, I ran a nice place here. They just got him loaded and poured him into a car out back and was gone.” That was possible. An interrogation with a leather sap would follow. 

“Who took him?” Boxcars gave the bartender’s arm a crushing squeeze.

“It was--Some little white guy--Round little white guy, I didn’t see the others!” The bartender hissed between his teeth. “I’m serious, the little guy took him and s-said I’d get some money this morning and then you two came around!”

Pickle Inspector watched the darkness growing across Boxcars’s face and reached for his hand. 

“B-Boxcars,” His long, dainty fingers curled around the hand that squashed the bartender’s arm. “Doesn’t that sound like s-someone you know?”

Boxcars turned his near black eyes to Pickle Inspector. He let go of the arm and Pickle Inspector let go of his hand. 

“Save it for the Felt, uh?” A cold edge stayed in his voice. Pickle Inspector nodded and knocked Boxcars’s arm with his. 

“Right, wh-why waste it onnn an average Joe?”

“Who’re you calling ‘average?’” The bartender ducked down, sprang up and turned poisonously on Pickle Inspector. A tiny silver derringer gleamed in his hand. 

Boxcars reached over and flicked the tiny gun down the bar. 

“C’mon! You won’t let me have anything, will you?” The bartender went slack and sad and frowned at Boxcars, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. 

“Was that the last one?” Boxcars growled at him while Pickle Inspector collected the tiny gun from where it had skittered. The bartender nodded sourly and slouched against the back bar. 

“Inspector, do we need him anymore?” Pickle Inspector pocketed the derringer and saw the darkness returning to Boxcars’s face. He nodded and put his hand out to take the sawed off away from the mobster. 

“H-How do we get in touch with the l-liaison? What’s th-their name?” Boxcars handed Pickle Inspector the sawed off while the bartender shook his head.

“The Pug finds you, not the only way around. Pug Nose is slippery, they show up if it’s worth their while and if it ain’t they don’t.” The bartender shrugged unhelpfully.

“Bullshit.” Boxcars snarled at him.

“Listen, you can believe me or not,” the bartender moved a step further from Boxcars, rubbing the arm that had nearly been crushed. “But I don’t know anything else about the Pug. They’re a chisler, like anybody else. They’re not some buddy of mine, how should I know how to get in touch with them?”

Boxcars sighed harshly and looked at Pickle Inspector, saw that he bought the bartender’s explanation, and then settled into frustrated silence. 

“What else do you two want? You got my guns, I told you about Slick, you screwed up my deal. Is there any other inconvenience you want?”

“Yes of course,” Pickle Inspector nodded. “The receipts from last nnnight.” 

The bartender slunked off to print them. Pickle Inspector leaned towards the weight of the sawed off shotgun under his spindly arm. His eyes flicked over the mirror on the back bar, he looked at Boxcars’s reflection and then the mobster himself. 

“What’re you gonna do with all those guns?” The change in Boxcars’s face as he smiled away the darkness of violence was becoming familiar and welcome, and that, on top of all the guns and the fighting and the taste of raw sour mash in his mouth, made it damned hard to think about his next step in solving this pre-solved mystery. 

“I, uh,” Pickle Inspector tilted towards the weight of the sawed off and he steadied himself on the bar. “Usually I take the b-bullets out and then we put the guns for the w-week in a big b-bag and throw them in the harbor.” 

“You’re fooling,” Hearts’s face broke into a grin. 

“No,” Pickle Inspector shook his head. “There’s such a l-lot of guns in town and nnno brains. We e-end up with more guns than killers and so we h-have to get rid of the e-extras.”

“You don’t have some evidence locker for them?”

“We’re not c-cops, Boxcars.” 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Boxcars leaned against the bar and put his head down so he was looking up into Pickle Inspector’s face. His small eyes squinted and the smile didn’t leave his face but it tightened as he took a long look at the detective. Pickle Inspector looked away at first but when Boxcars kept staring at him he turned back. Boxcars snapped his fingers and his smile widened. “There, I got it.”

“G-Got what?” Pickle Inspector felt a blush rising from his neck. 

“Your tell. I thought it was the stutter but it’s not. It’s this little smile you can’t stop when you think you’re funny.” 

Pickle Inspector’s brain filled with the idea of Hearts Boxcars watching his face closely enough to know his different smiles. 

“Yeah, that’s the one. You kind of fight it down but there’s a little bit that stays on your cheek.” Boxcars touched the same spot on his own cheek. 

“Th-That’s because I,” Pickle Inspector cleared his throat. “I think I’m v-very funny.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see it myself.” Boxcars’s grin brightened his dark face, bringing out the rosiness of his skin and wrinkling the tiny crow’s feet in the corners of his deep red eyes. 

“Here.” The bartender came over with a tangle of receipts that curled into a heap he held in both arms. “Have fun with these.”

“I-I tried to h-help you.” Pickle Inspector said, handing the sawed off back to Boxcars and then opening his arms to accept the giant wad of receipts. 

“I’ll send you a thank-you card.” The bartender assured him.

* * *

“D-Don’t let me forget these.” Pickle Inspector stuffed the derringer and the snub-nose into the glove compartment with Boxcars’s other guns. The sawed off was tucked under Pickle Inspector’s seat. He had the pile of receipts strewn across his lap while he bent to push the guns all the way back into the glovebox. “If they can’t be ID’d they nnneed to go in the b-bay.” 

“So that’s what it’s like, huh? Making a living asking questions and taking guys’ guns away?” Hearts watched him with his arm leaned on the steering wheel.

“That’s wh-what it’s like,” Pickle Inspector tetris’d the guns around. “Mmn, well, th-that was easier than usual.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I-I don’t do well in b-bar fights,” the detective admitted as he finally got the glove compartment to close. “So thank you, f-for that. Is your chin a-alright?”

Boxcars touched his chin, thinking about the pool cue for the first time since it broke across his face. His skin was a little tender but that was it. 

“Never better. I, uh, I appreciate you grabbing that snub-nose.” Pickle Inspector turned his bright eyes up from a few handfuls of receipts. Boxcars noticed how soft and wavy his hair was when it moved over his tall forehead. “That took some sand and I didn’t figure you’d care if I, uh. Well, you know, if things went sideways.”

“W-Well,” Pickle Inspector spoke to his receipts, balling up one handful and scanning the other. “I’d mmmiss five thousand dollars if you were shot. And I’d st-still need to save Slick.” 

“Why?” 

Pickle Inspector looked at him and his face was pale and clammy and he looked just like he had all day except the light went out in his eyes. “There’ll be chaos if he’s, i-if anything happens to himmm. Like you said.”

“Awh, yeah, of course.” Boxcars nodded. “I forget, you’re a good guy. You even look out for the low-lives.”

“Is that so b-bad?” Pickle Inspector asked, dropping more crumpled receipts into the pile. Boxcars was starting to see how his desk got to be like that.

“No, I don’t guess it is.” Boxcars smiled quietly and started the truck. He pulled on his seatbelt. “We ought to get back to your office.” 

“What?” Pickle Inspector roped the receipts around him with his seatbelt. “Why w-would we go b-back there?”

“I’ll drop you off and then go collect my boys. We’ll see about this Felt situation.” Boxcars told the windshield. 

“S-So we’re done?” Pickle Inspector was wide eyed and stiff. 

“Well, yeah. The bartender said it was Doc Scratch, that’s all the convincing I need. Now I got to get Clubs and Diamonds in the loop and we’ll get Slick back ourselves. I told you, Inspector, this was the easiest case you’d ever have.” 

“Oh n-nnno, that’s a bad plan.” Pickle Inspector was staring at him, all color gone from his face, the black interior of the truck and the cold sky behind him making the only point of color left the pale blue of his eyes. “That’s--You,”

He balled a bony fist in front of his mouth, gave a short, wavering, humming, squeak and then trained his searchlights on Boxcars. 

“You three a-against the seh-sixteen of themmm? Even you, you’re strong B-Boxcars but the F-Felt aren’t just a few drunks.”

“You scared for me, Inspector?” Boxcars cocked an eyebrow at him and smiled with his canines, almost flattered.

“It’s--The mmmath doesn’t add up.” Pickle Inspector sat shaking his head. The Crew and the Felt would only cancel each other out until they realized Slick wasn’t at the Manor. And if they didn’t realize it in time, Pickle Inspector would be sending three men to get shot sixteen ways from Sunday. “Y-You’re outnumbered already and d-down a man. Isn’t there, there s-some other way?”

“Like we walk up on their front porch and say ‘Please give us Spades back?’ No, Inspector. We’ll settle this one my way.” Boxcars didn’t feel great about their chances but he remembered Clubs’s idea that the Felt were already split between the Manor and wherever they were keeping Slick. 

“Wh-What if I could f-find Slick instead?” Pickle Inspector’s whole body was tense and still. “You get him back and th-then you jump on the Felt?”

“You know where he is all of a sudden?” Boxcars snorted. 

“Th-That is, where the F-Felt put him,” Pickle Inspector fleshed out his idea. “Or sommmething to give you a f-fighting chance against them. You wouldn’t nnneed to take such an a-awful risk.”

“You really are scared for me.” Boxcars punched Pickle Inspector’s arm lightly but a wheeze was still knocked out of him. The detective nodded his head until Boxcars thought he heard his brain rattling around in his skull. 

“I knnnow I can find Slick.” Pickle Inspector told him. “But I just nnneed a little more of your time. You w-won’t regret it, so, so why nnnot get your money’s worth?”

Boxcars thought about that and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was barely two in the afternoon. The truck rolled slowly to a stop at a light.

“Okey Inspector, let’s see what else you can do for me. Where to?”

They could try tracking down Pug Nose, wherever they were. But finding one nameless sharper in Midnight City would be like finding a needle in a haystack. If Boxcars didn’t see results quickly enough he would call things off again. 

They could try Felt Manor, Pickle Inspector could case the house and try to find something useful enough to bargain with. It was a long shot but he might even be able to call the Team and tell them how doomed they all were, if he could sneak away from Boxcars long enough. 

Or they could go back to Franklin Street and Pickle Inspector could hand Slick back to Boxcars. Of course he would be perfectly understanding, now that they were buddy-buddy.

“Let’s find out what we c-can from Felt Manor.”


	6. Time Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickle Inspector goes on a trip in Felt Manor and sees the Time Knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right up front, I don't remember how the Felt's powers work so a lot of this was made up. I hope it's fun to read and that I can be forgiven for not double checking the wiki. 
> 
> Dark Star, by The Grateful Dead: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Xic-CHInek  
> And this song doesn't play anywhere in the chapter but it's one I think fits too well with the Felt not to include,  
> Time, by David Bowie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQSZR3NSqm8

They parked in a gutted filling station two blocks down from Felt Manor. All the life had been sucked out of this neighborhood, its derelict Colonial homes crumbling away and leaving a rolling green of overgrown vacant lots at the center of which stood the Manor. The gas station took up a far corner of the rolling green, facing the Manor with the ghosts of a few houses between them. Felt Manor was an obscene glowstick shining in radioactive green against the pale sky. 

There was no using the old filling machines here, the body of the small station stood eyeless, its plate glass long smashed in, leaving the building a cracked open shell. On the radio a band played a strumming, excited opening and then quickly got lost, each player building on one another in a growing wall of sound. Pickle Inspector recognized the tune but didn’t mind when Boxcars cut the engine and killed the radio. He wanted to stay as far away, while he could, from the transitive nightfall of Diamonds. 

Boxcars moved in his seat to lean against the steering wheel and rub his bottom lip with his thumb. He had ditched his suit jacket and in the dull light his shiny shirt was the color of a bloody stain left to dry somewhere cramped and dark overnight. 

“I don’t like it.” He said, maybe to himself or Pickle Inspector. 

“I knnnow it sounds like a b-bad idea.” The detective told him from the passenger’s side. He crumpled several gin-less receipts together in his hands and tossed the ball of paper into the pile covering his long, long legs. “But th-this is what you’re paying mmme for. And I r-really can think on my feet, M-Mr. Boxcars.”

Boxcars pulled his eyes from the glowstick on the horizon, his thumb still at his bottom lip. 

“Mister?”

Pickle Inspector blinked and inclined his head, letting out a breath he hadn’t felt himself holding. 

“Boxcars.”

“Better.” A smile crossed his face and left it quickly. Boxcars looked from Pickle Inspector to the Manor and then sat there staring. “I know you can think your way in and out of Felt Manor, Inspector, I just don’t know if anything but your brains would survive the trip.”

“I j-just grabbed a gun b-before you were shot with it.”

“Yeah and then I grabbed the second one and did the third one too.”

“So you, you don’t th-think I can do this.” Pickle Inspector turned his eyes into cold floodlights in the dark interior of the truck. 

“Oh, c’mon now, who said anything about ‘can’ or ‘can’t?’” Boxcars narrowed his eyes and made a smug shape with his mouth. He pet the air near Pickle Inspector. “I know you’d go in there and if things went sideways you’d put up a fight and make me real proud. And then y’know where you’d end up? In the harbor, if you’re lucky.”

“I would nnnot,” Pickle Inspector spoke before the image of the harbor fully resurfaced in his mind. For a moment he saw the lights of the boardwalk against the night sky, then cold black waves closed over him and he watched the golden light of the casinos pale and dim as he sank. They were grey pin pricks before he reached the bottom, then gone before he reached the bottom, and then there was only the silent blackness of the water withering him away. 

“Ah, but see, you get to thinking about it and you turn into a ghost.” Boxcars jabbed a finger at him and Pickle Inspector came back to his slightly sweaty but otherwise dry and alive body. “Listen, Inspector. Maybe there’s some good guy creed that says you never make ten grand the easy way, I don’t know. But this is a job me and my boys ought to take care of here. You got no place in it.”

Pickle Inspector thought of his own boys, the two morons keeping Slick trapped in Ace’s trunk, and his girls, the two sleuths working the case the way he had wanted to and with hope and luck finding some solid answers. He couldn’t chance any of them joining him in the harbor. If he had to waste Hearts Boxcars’s time to buy them even a second more he would do it. Even if it meant tangling with the Felt.

“So maybe you don’t take the chance, huh?” Boxcars continued. “You’re a professional, you grab guns better than any guy I ever seen. But you’re off the hook.”

Pickle Inspector balled up several more receipts, looking at Boxcars with his eyes alert and his jaw set. 

“You’re sc-scared for me.”

“What? You--Are you crazy?”

“Admmmit it, you’re scared for me.”

“I, oh, hell, I don’t--Well, who wouldn’t be? What, I’m such a bad guy that I wouldn’t care if you got time spliced because I paid you too much money?” Boxcars’s dark face bloomed with red. 

“You’re nnnot a bad guy, you’re a worrier.” Pickle Inspector’s floodlights beamed at him and he waggled a finger. “A-And I know all about worriers. I-- I invented worrying.” 

Boxcars let out a ragged sigh, squinting at Pickle Inspector and fighting a small, toothy smile. 

“Okey smart guy, okey. So maybe I am a little worried.” He pinched the air between them. “A _little_ worried. Let’s hear that plan again, maybe it’ll be better on the second listen.”

Pickle Inspector understood Hearts’s low estimation of his plan for this excursion but he didn’t find his attitude towards it incredibly helpful to the creative process. 

“I’m g-going to walk up on the fruh-front porch and ask to use the b-bathroom.” Stupider plans had worked for the Team, that was for damn sure. “A-And while I’m inside I’ll be able to l-look for Slick, or s-something to lead us to him.”

He would also look for somewhere to call the Team, and possibly use the bathroom. 

“See the problem is that plan is bad.” Hearts’s lip bobbed over the tip of his thumb. 

“But does calling it ‘b-bad’ make it any better?”

“Lemme rephrase,” Boxcars rolled his eyes. “That plan has you snooping around a house full of vicious killer morons. You already proved you’re a friend, so why go through all this?”

“A friend?” 

“Of the Crew’s.” He spoke quickly, looking away with regret in his voice.

“Oh, y-yes of course.” Pickle Inspector huffed softly, bunching up more receipts and then having to unbunch them because he hadn’t actually read them. “I don’t knnnow, I mmmean, what was I even, ahh...” 

He dithered on like that until Boxcars spoke over him. 

“But say, as a friend, I took care of the Felties for you. You go in and I back you up.” 

“Like, like a bodyguard?” Pickle Inspector regained the thread of their conversation and softened his voice. He’d never get a call out to the Team with Boxcars hanging around. “Y-You’d walk into your w-worst enemies’ home after they’ve k-kidnapped your boss?”

“Sounds like I’d be helping two friends in one.” Boxcars thumbed at his chin. 

“Nnno, the whole scheme would be b-blown.” Pickle Inspector settled it for him. “L-Let me do this, I’ll find s-something to lead us to Slick. I’m sure.” 

Hearts sat forward with a slow, steady movement of his body, leaning his big arms on the steering wheel and looking out at the glowstick again. His thumb found his lower lip. 

“I don’t like it.” He said.

“A little trust,” Pickle Inspector pinched the air. “And I p-promise I won’t tell anyone you trusted a d-detective.”

Boxcars chewed the tip of his thumb and then let out a heavy sigh, shook his head and sucked his teeth. He reached over Pickle Inspector, brushing receipts out of his lap into the footwell and then opened the passenger’s side door and gave Pickle Inspector’s thigh a pat.

“Get going before I change my mind, uh? And if you’re not back in an hour I’m coming in after you.”

“B-Boxcars that’s, that’s not necessary.”

“You get to make your bad decision so how about you let me make mine?”

Pickle Inspector felt a cold breeze blow through the open door and ruffle his receipts. Today had seen enough bad decisions that he guessed one more would only be a drop in the ocean. And he could tell by the set of Boxcars’s strong jaw that there was no talking him out of this one. 

“I’ll be a-as quick as I can.”

He climbed out of the truck, shuffled all the receipts into his seat and closed the door. Boxcars watched Pickle Inspector rifle in his dense pockets, find what he was looking for without taking it out and then go walking off towards the menacing tower of glowsticks. 

The walk through the bare lots was slow, the long blocks stretching out with nothing but the whispering sea of grass to look at. Telling one lot from another was impossible, the green sea churning in the cold breeze. The wind picked up here with nothing to stop it and drew Pickle Inspector’s coat this way and that, a chill cutting through him. Ahead the skeletons of two old houses creaked in the wind, hollow breaths moving through their empty bodies. He wondered how The Felt kept watch over the stretch of bare land around their headquarters. Maybe they had video cameras trained around the Manor that would ping someone inside about a solitary snoop being dropped off two blocks away by one of the Felt’s worst enemies. 

If anyone met him on the porch he’d turn around and maybe just run back to the office. No, if the Felt didn’t catch him Boxcars would and he’d start asking what was wrong... 

He made it down the first long, bare block and came to the first old house. The ground floor was burnt out, a gaping hole singed through the front wall, smoke damage scaring the face of the building. Through the hole in the front Pickle Inspector could see across the ground floor out the back. The second floor hung ashen and staring, supported by three tall, splintering, wooden beams and nothing else. Pickle Inspector tried not to breathe in the house’s direction in case that much was all it took to finally knock it over. 

A heavy mechanical drone rumbled ahead of him and Pickle Inspector glimpsed the body of a car through the burned out building. Its engine carried through the empty blocks, closing in on him as the old house blocked his view. He retreated a step, trying to keep the house between them, but it was no use. The Oldsmobile turned and pulled down the block, riding slow past Pickle Inspector without stopping. Cold sunlight gleamed off the red and green paint job, red stretching up the right side and green up the left with a thin white seam running the length of the car between them. The engine growled and four sets of eyes in heavy, grim faces watched him.

Four men, big bruisers by the look of them, stared out at Pickle Inspector as they drove by. He saw a black eye on one face, a reddish, battered jaw on another. The Oldsmobile kept easing down the block, turned away before it passed the gas station and drove off, deeper into Low Town. 

Nothing else crossed his path. 

The cold wind swirled his coat, closing its icy grip around his chest as he passed the other ghost house. This one was nothing more than a piece of wall with the ribs of a staircase jutting out of it. The green sea whispered to him things he couldn’t understand and then he was in front of Felt Manor. It was luminous and overdone with a million painted wooden filigrees on every inch of the facade, acid green windows staring out with the posts lining the front porch grinning at Pickle Inspector. He counted eight green cars parked in front of the Manor, two more sat in the short driveway alongside it. How the Felt could be content to sit at home after they had lost a firefight and a hostage in only a couple days, Pickle Inspector couldn’t guess. 

He walked up the short concrete path and onto the glowing, green eyesore that was their front porch. Pickle Inspector didn’t see any cameras, the chartreuse doily curtains were drawn over the front windows, and there was one brown package, a foot by a foot and a half, waiting by the tall front door. It wasn’t every day he found a decent excuse to knock on someone’s door so he picked up the package, read its name and knocked on the door. 

Pickle Inspector heard his knock echoing, the cold air and the empty blocks leaving him alone and exposed as he waited. If he thought about where he was, holding someone else’s package about to try and talk his way into a mob’s headquarters with another mobster two blocks away who’d paid him five thousand dollars already and who Pickle Inspector had been lying to all day because his friends were across town keeping that mobster’s boss trapped in a car trunk, well… It got to be a little much. He forced out a long shaking breath and pulled a new one in. The best he could do now was to get in touch with his Team, find something they could bargain with, and maybe beg Hearts to go easy on them if he tore up his check. 

It wasn’t a very good plan but it was something. He was buying his Team more time every second he kept Boxcars occupied, at the very least. 

The front door opened and a very small man with a round, green face wearing a fluffy, purple bathrobe looked up at him. He was holding an espresso cup in both hands and Pickle Inspector wondered for a moment if the polite thing to do would be to sit on the porch instead of bending double to address him. 

“Oh, hey,” The little man said in a sharp, piping voice. “It must be our lucky day if I’m the one answering the door.” 

“H-How’s that?” Pickle Inspector raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s a little quirk of mine. You’re here to fix the cable, right?”

Pickle Inspector gripped the (roughly) cable box sized package in his hand and nodded his head. 

“That’s right. H-Heck of a guess.”

“Yeah, it’s what I do.” The teeny tiny shoulders in the fluffy robe shrugged and he turned inside. “C’mon in, you can keep your shoes on but just don’t walk on the rugs.” 

The little man, Pickle Inspector’s wheels turned and he decided this was Clover, the littlest Felt member and one of the few moderately competent ones, walked inside. His fluffy slippers shuffled over a long, plush carpet that stretched the length of the foyer and Pickle Inspector walked along beside him on the hardwood. The door closed heavily behind them and his eyes tried to adjust to the endless green inside of the Manor. It was like staring through a forest’s canopy trying to decipher each leaf as they shifted overhead. 

One thing he could decipher without issue were about seven or eight million clocks, all different sizes, shapes, ages and makes, lining the walls of the Manor. Their collective ticking, all different tones and ticks and tocks, all out of time with each other, was monotonous at best. 

While he squinted and followed his little host Pickle Inspector mulled. Two in the afternoon was a little late to be wearing a bathrobe and slippers, especially for a mobster whose gang was in the middle of a turf war with one mob and a bungled kidnapping with another. 

The foyer opened into a parlor with a zigzagging staircase opening to a view of the second storey. A pair of men in undershirts and slacks were coming down the stairs, one with a tall pinched forehead and an underbite, the other with a heavy, flat brow and an overbite. Clover stopped at an archway under the stairs and nodded through it. 

“The TV’s in there, you got everything you need right?” He turned his little, round face up at Pickle Inspector, taking him in for the first time. The two men on the stairs reached them. 

“Oh, finally, the guy’s here.” The one with the underbite said. 

“Thank God, it’s been days. We been living like cavemen.” Said the one with the overbite.

“Got so damn bored we ended up trading lead with those goombas on Third Street just to pass the time.” The underbite scoffed, crossing his bony arms over his narrow chest. 

“I’ll b-be ready in just a second,” Pickle Inspector said neatly, drumming his fingers on the package he carried. “C-Could you point me to the bathroom?”

“Second door on your right.” Clover thumbed down the hall. 

Pickle Inspector closed the bathroom door and locked it quietly, turned on the faucet and took a moment for himself. 

He pulled out his phone and flipped it open to a slew of messages.

From Ace: 

‘Checking in. Send info when you have it. Stay safe.’ 

From Dame: 

‘Working the impound, didn’t find much but the owner’s did NOT like me asking questions. Hope you’re making progress ;-* ’

From Broad: 

‘The bobble heads did not melt but were too badly bobbled to give a statement. Write when you can.’ 

‘Keeping an eye for you. You said you’ll be done at midnight?’ 

‘Rooting for you!’

From Sleuth: 

‘No idea what your day’s like, you’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back.’ 

‘Hope the story will be worth all the headache, we owe you for peeing on this fire!’

‘Call when you can, we all want to know you’re safe.’ 

Pickle Inspector leaned against the aged copper sink and sighed. He dialed, raised the phone to his ear and after two rings:

“Go for Problem Sleuth.” 

“Sleuth it’s mmme,” He kept his voice low, slinking to sit on the lid of the toilet while they talked. 

“Oh, man, Pi is it ever good to hear your voice. What the hell’s going on?”

“A lot,” Pickle Inspector squashed his face into his palm, closing his eyes. “I’mmm w-working for Hearts Boxcars, he’s l-looking for Slick, I g-got away long enough to call b-but I’m inside Felt Mmmanor right now.”

“Jeeesus,” Sleuth didn’t like that one bit. “Alright, hang on. Hey Ace?”

There was shuffling from him and then Sleuth came back clear. 

“We’re taking you for drinks when this is done, Pi. No arguing, you’re getting all the whiskey sours you can stand.” 

Pickle Inspector chuckled sadly and felt some of the cold loneliness leave him as he smiled into the phone. 

“Th-That’s if we g-get through this.” He said softly. 

“So far we’re doing okey over here.” Sleuth started filling him in. “Our guest ain’t happy but he’s in the shade and things have been quiet. It’s actually kind of funny, Ace almost got stabbed in the butt!”

“St-Still haven’t gotten his knnnife?”

“Nah, but he knows I’m gonna try so he’s been keeping it to himself.”

“What’s he rememmmber from last night?” 

Sleuth sucked his teeth and then cleared his throat. Pickle Inspector knew without seeing him that he was fussing with his hair. 

“Yeah, about that. It kind of turns out you were right about us closing him in the trunk like that. He uh, he doesn’t remember much of anything from last night.”

Pickle Inspector closed his eyes and chewed his lips and let a long breath out through his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Listen, we moved him around to the access road by the dumpster, he’s got a nice shady spot away from prying eyes. You can’t even see the Belvedere from the rest of the lot!” Sleuth was trying to make it sound like any of that could un-concuss Slick, but Pickle Inspector was willing to admit he’d made the best of a bad situation. “We’re making sure he doesn’t get any more concussed and, hell, we can split his hospital bill or something. I’ll see if I can’t add that to the deal.”

“A-Any progress there?” Pickle Inspector spoke with the heel of his hand tucked into his eye socket. 

“We’re close to finding out what he wants for lunch.” Sleuth told him. “But he’s not real flexible about what’ll happen once we let him out.” 

“Great, s-super great.”

“So how’d you end up in Felt Manor?”

“B-Boxcars thinks I’mmm doing reconnaissance for the Crew.” Pickle Inspector picked his head up and explained as best he could. “Slick mmmet Doc Scratch and a liaison f-for drinks last night and as soon as Boxcars found out the F-Felt were inv-involved he wanted to call the c-case off. He was going to g-get the rest of the Crew and come o-out here but I got him to k-keep going, every second th-they’re distracted counts, right?”

“Mmn.” Sleuth didn’t agree. “Not what I’d have done but you’re making some headway, right? That’s good.”

“No, nnnot at all. I th-thought we were but… The Felt are j-just waiting to get their c-cable fixed. Th-They think I’m here to fix it. Would you bother about something l-like that with a war and a k-kidnapping on your plate?”

“Hell, I’ve only got one of those problems and I can feel myself going grey.” Pickle Inspector smiled, knowing Sleuth was fussing with his hair again. “So if the Felt aren’t involved who does that leave?”

“Th-There’s someone we mmmet earlier, a liaison here in L-Low Town. They’re your height, sh-shoulder length hair. A bad pug nnnose,” Pickle Inspector dropped his voice even further. “They h-helped kidnap S-Slick, anything you can f-find out about them I nnneed to know.”

“Pug nose, Low Town liaison, shoulder length hair. Them, they, so a non binary type?”

“G-Gender non conforming, at least, b-but that’s just a guess. We b-barely talked.”

“Okey, I’ll tell the girls and we’ll find out what we can. What’s your plan for getting out of there, Pi?”

“I nnneed to find out wh-what Dr. Scratch did l-last night. Then I’ll f-fix the cable and go.”

“Now’s a hell of a time to be telling jokes.” Problem Sleuth told him. 

“B-Boxcars thinks they’re funny,” Pickle Inspector returned.

“Does he?” Sleuth had no idea why Pickle Inspector would tell him that. 

“Ah, w-well, it’s a long st-story. I, It’s b-better if I stay onnn his good side.”

“Yeah, I guess so. You sure you’re alright? I could get Dame to come find you, she’s staking out the impound right now. Nothing so far but the owners were real cagey when she went in.”

“I’mmm fine. E-Everything’s under control.” Pickle Inspector sat up and faced the door, knowing he was running out of time to dawdle. “Listen I’ve g-got to go. Tell me you’ll be sm-smart, the first sign of trouble, o-of the Crew and I want you out of there.”

“Pi--”

“I mmmean it, Sleuth.”

“Pi, you know we’d never leave without you.” Pickle Inspector could waste time arguing or he could take Sleuth at his word. And Sleuth’s word meant everything to the guy.

“Just keep safe, a-and don’t let Ace st-stand too close to the tail light.” 

“Already on it, buddy. You look out for yourself, huh? We want you back in one piece.” 

“I’ll s-see you tonight, Sleuth.”

“See you tonight, Pi.”

They hung up, Pickle Inspector collected himself, washed his hands and came back out to the parlor. Clover and the two others were in the TV room, an old office that still wore its elaborate wainscoting even though it only held a couple of couches, a flatscreen, two grandfather clocks and a pethera of cuckoos, maritimes, pendulums, wall and floor clocks. 

“About time,” Clover said, sitting on the very edge of the seat cushion. “I almost sent this one back to stop you.”

He nodded his round, little head at the Felt with the underbite. Pickle Inspector zeroed in and found that his name was ‘Trace’, which made his heavy-browed friend ‘Fin.’ 

“Is that, l-like,” Pickle Inspector gestured loosely to the innumerable clocks on all the walls. “Your thing? You b-boys are the time mob, right?”

“Yeah, he goes forwards, I go backwards.” Trace said, thumbing over Clover to Fin. 

“Like h-how far back?” Pickle Inspector took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “To the d-dinosaurs or just, just a day?”

“I can go as far as I need,” Traced said with a jagged grin. “But you don’t want to go back too far. Y’know, you sneeze on one dinosaur and then they all die and then you get back and the chain reaction on history makes it rain donuts or something. A day will do fine, usually.”

“Same goes for the future.” Fin said. “Y’know, because you don’t wanna just walk right up to the inevitable heat death of the universe. But if I was real determined I could make it there. It’s all theoretical, like.”

“Unreal,” Pickle Inspector said with some genuine incredulity. He started working the tape around the package open. It was a federal crime to open someone else’s mail but he was already lying to one mob while imprisoning their boss while also working for them making thousands of dollars and now he was here impersonating a cable-operator to get information from that mob’s biggest and most well manned rivals. So the feds could wait at the bottom of his list of people to worry about. “And you two can juh-just go whenever you want?” 

“That’s right.”

Pickle Inspector nodded and pursed his lips and opened the box. There were three paperback books inside. He formulated an idea while he toyed with the packing peanuts around them.

“And you do, wh-what? You mmmove through the present?” He asked Clover. 

The little, round head turned to one side and then the other, tiny hands holding the espresso cup up to his mouth. 

“I’m real lucky.” He said after a gulp that would have been a sip to anyone else. “I always have the best timing, you could say. Like how it was so lucky I was at the door when you knocked.”

Pickle Inspector took the snub-nose .38 out of his pocket and pointed it at the flatscreen.

“That was l-lucky.” He said, nodding. 

There was an overlapping mess of shouts from the couch and the three Felts started to get up. Pickle Inspector cocked the little gun. The mobsters froze.

“What kind of cable guy are you?” Clover said, his eyes wide. 

“One with nnnothing to lose.” Pickle Inspector spoke carefully, keeping the gun pointed nice and steady at the TV. The men on the couch stayed there, staring at him. “I d-don’t want to shoot your TV, b-boys. But I need some in-information and y-you’re going to give it to me right now. Wh-When I get some answers… then I’ll fix your cable.”

The Felts looked at each other, eyes wide. Clover especially looked unsteady, not used to caring where a gun was pointed. Trace looked back out into the parlor and Fin stared ahead at Pickle Inspector. 

“How’re you gonna fix it--” Clover said with deadly seriousness. “When you aren’t even a real cable guy?”

The other two gasped. 

“I’ll t-tell you,” Pickle Inspector flashed his big, earnest eyes at the little man. “B-But you’ve got to mmmake it worth my while. Mr. Trace?”

Trace looked up and raised his upper lip, shark’s teeth glimmering in the dark room. 

“I nnneed to see what Dr. Scratch was d-doing last night. You c-can show me that, right?”

“I, yeah, sure, but, why d’you want to see that?”

Pickle Inspector touched the nose of the gun to the TV screen. 

“P-Please don’t ask questions right nnnow.”

“Okey, okey. Sure, fine. You want to see it, like, now, now?”

Pickle Inspector nodded, then moved his eyes to Clover and Fin. 

“And I’ll thank you t-two not to butt in.”

Clover looked up at Fin, who closed one eye and peered at Pickle Inspector, then grimaced and sat back. 

“He ain’t bluffing,” He groused to Clover. “He’ll shoot the TV as soon as we jump him.”

“Mr. Trace?” Pickle Inspector pushed his chin at Trace to beckon him over. The Felt moved off of the couch and came up to Pickle Inspector, flexing and curling his hands. The detective added, his voice softer now that they faced each other: “I-If it’s any consolation I’mmm trying to prove Dr. Scratch is in-innocent of something.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a ton better.” Trace snapped at him. He looked over his slumped shoulders at his friends and then put up a hand to Pickle Inspector. “Let’s get it over with.”

Pickle Inspector looked at the hand and then took it, the .38 still against the TV. Trace was bony and coarse with stubby fingers. His grip was strong and he looked grim. He glanced at the men on the couch again, then pulled Pickle Inspector towards him. The detective started to fall and then hung in the air, the men on the couch stilled into perfect statues and all of reality folded in on itself and compressed into one tight, flat line. Pickle Inspector’s ears rang loudly, the tone a jarring electric shock that sustained and deepened into the endless cascade of one second upon another. All moments in time were the same and he occupied them all at once, infinitely, and none of them eternally.

He knew he should be toppling to the ground but instead Pickle Inspector hung in the air motionless, looking at a statue of Trace. It was a very flat, lifeless grey color, two dimensional without the relief of porous stone or tactile metal. The man’s face was in perfect detail, and perfect stillness that was just as unnatural as its color. The detective knew, his eyes moving with a dreamy, soft weight, that the men on the couch were the same perfect, lifeless grey, as was the rest of the Manor, as was Pickle Inspector himself. But he could only see that by conceptualizing himself in his mind’s eye, which was a strain right now because he saw the infinite power of the universe in each minute spark of electricity in his brain, and felt the sweep of every atom, that was only ever one atom experiencing all positions in time and space at once, in the cosmic dance around him. And that made it kind of hard to remember he was just one person right now. Let alone what he looked like. 

The statue in front of him moved and Pickle Inspector watched it intently, knowing that he only knew nothing about everything. No, that wasn’t it. Something was moving underneath the statue’s skin, something greenish and wavering with real, living color, peeling back from the grey face, something solid squirmed inside the statue and then ripped out through its back. 

Trace tore through the grey hush of himself with a gasp, breaking out of his statue like an ugly butterfly chewing through its chrysalis. Pickle Inspector watched him, pushing against his own glassy skin but getting nowhere until Trace yanked on him again. Then he split through the false image of himself like he was being pulled through a thin sheet of paper. 

Pickle Inspector fell head long into Traces’s statue, grabbing it for support and pushing it over. The statue fell, landing as dryly and lightly as a bug’s molted carapace, and Pickle Inspector staggered to keep his balance. His body moved with a slow, humid weight and he felt the stillness of the air like a film of plastic wrap pulling on him with every motion.

“God dammit,” Trace’s voice came out backwards and forwards at the same time and Pickle Inspector understood it but only if he didn’t listen too closely. It was like hearing a shout underwater. The Felt stooped and picked up his broken husk. “What’s wrong with you? I need this thing.” 

The harshness of his voice was a bundle of needles prickling Pickle Inspector and he backed away a step. How could someone get mad about the immensely powerful and terrifying experience of knowing the oneness of all being? 

“S-Sorry,” Pickle Inspector muttered, aware that Trace was mad about something he’d done. “Wh-what?” 

Trace scowled at him. He snapped his fingers three times in Pickle Inspector’s face and it was a gong being struck three times by his ear. His eyes went wide and white and he stared with the full power of his disconcerting ogle. That made Trace visibly uncomfortable and he backed off, handling his torn open statue with care. 

“First timer,” He scoffed, busying himself with repositioning the statue. “We’re outside of time, dumbass. These are our real bodies and they have to stay right where we were when we left. It leads to all kinds of nonsense otherwise.” 

Pickle Inspector watched the man holding a perfect, if partially destroyed, statue of himself and meticulously placing it into the divet on the carpet that matched up with his shoes. 

“Do you get it?” Trace said, setting his arm just right so his statue was pulling Pickle Inspector’s statue over. The real, or maybe just the current, Pickle Inspector swelled with a breath, his shoulders rising to his ears and then back down as he puffed out and blinked dramatically. 

“Y-You knnnow there’s a lot of it and… a-and it’s hard to descri-b-be.”

“Lord. How high are you right now? You really go around sticking up houses and fixing people’s cable stoned out of your mind?”

“Th-This isn’t--” Pickle Inspector felt the strain of confusion and anger on his mind and he let go of them, giving in to the flow of the trip. “I’mmm not the c-cable guy. I’m a d-detective.” 

“But you said,” Trace’s face poisoned. “You said you could fix the cable.”

“You’ll g-get your cable f-fixed. But nnnot before I see Dr. Scratch.” It was an impossibly bad idea to have to do anything when he was experiencing the infinite nature of reality, but he hadn’t asked for anything that had happened today. He only knew that fear bred more fear wherever it went. If he stayed on mission he could get through this and deal with the rest of everything later. Or maybe he’d go lay face down in the front lawn. 

It sounded nice but there would probably be a ton of bugs. 

“Whatever, god damn hippie. It’s not like he did anything last night.” Trace stormed away, going through the archway into the parlor. 

Pickle Inspector watched him go and looked at the falling statue of himself. He hung weightless in the air, the front of his body torn open so his face hung in grey tatters and there was enough room for him to climb inside again and wear the statue as a second skin. But he didn’t feel like doing that, per se. 

In another second, when he returned to his fall, he’d land on the floor and probably get his gun kicked out of his hand, at the least. He rectified that quickly and then hurried out after Trace. 

“You already forget what you came here for?” Trace sneered, leaning against the side of the zig zagging staircase. He had a pendulum clock that matched the teardrop shape of his head open beside him, the glass bulb that protected its face reflecting his instead. The mobster started turning the delicate, filigreed arms of the clock back. Around them the grey Manor began playing backwards:

There was movement in the TV room and then Pickle Inspector’s grey false image walked backwards out of it, backwards down the hall and into the bathroom. He came back out, trailed down the hall to the false images of Trace, Clover and Fin, then he and Clover walked down the front hall and he was gone out the front door.

“I nnneed to see what Scratch d-did last night.” Pickle Inspector proved he was on track, even though it took a lot of him rhymically squeezing his leg to stay in the right timestream in all the quantum flux of a trillion different realities folding onto each other like sheets of metal forming a single blade. And, after all, the multiverse was only a thought away and he’d like nothing more than to relax into the unknowable peace of being a single soul that shimmered in the distant, long dead stars and the eyes that watched their beautiful, glowing ghosts through the night. But if he didn’t keep this rig rolling, as Sleuth liked to say, he’d be resting in peace sooner than later. “B-Between two and--”

He reached for the time Slick left for his secret meeting and didn’t have it. Pickle Inspector put his hand out to ask Boxcars but he was alone.

“C-Call it two annnd eight.” He told Trace, the icy grip from before closing around him. His hair was cold and wavering around his expanded brain and the loneliness from his walk redoubled. Working the case alone left him exposed to its dangers with nothing and no one to quell his anxiety. 

“A’right,” Trace said in a dull growl. He twisted the arms of the pendulum clock back, round and round while Felt Manor played around them like a sped up security feed. A matter of hours replayed in such detail and speed that Pickle Inspector had to look away and instead looked down at his hand. 

He was holding a gun and tripping, that was such a monstrously bad idea. Before he could breathe in the toxifying, noxious air of death that emanated from all guns Pickle Inspector pocketed the snub-nose and came over to stand by Trace. Tucked beside this particular clock in the wall of faces they avoided most of the bustle and hubbub that came through the front of the house and up and down the stairs. 

“This i-is,” The Manor was pale and cavernous with the posts of the zigzagging stairs forming row upon row of toothy stalagmites. Before he could make the mistake of looking longer into its gaping maw Pickle Inspector turned his head and deliberately focused on Trace, who didn’t seem surprised or impressed by any of it. “T-Totally nnnormal for you?”

“It’s a bunch of guys walking backwards, what do I care?” Trace growled. Pickle Inspector shuddered and frowned at him. 

“Y-You, you don’t feel the o-oneness of everything?”

“Oneness? Are you fucking kidding me?” Trace snarled at him and Pickle Inspector tensed up, believing him. Around them the morning rewound with little to see, no big house meeting, no frantic running around to find a missing hostage, just grey people wandering by with mugs of coffee. Pickle Inspector wished his morning had been more like that, then thought about almost getting coffee with Boxcars. He should’ve slapped the phone out of his hand when it rang and insisted they get breakfast. Then this whole horrible day would’ve been circumvented. “Oneness, Lord, no. I’m not a refer fiend, I just move outside of time a lot. Get it through that big head of yours. Here’s the Doc.”

Trace shoved his jaw up at the stairs as the day wound back into night and Pickle Inspector followed his eyes to find a small figure climbing the stairs backwards, slinking down one careful step at a time. Like Clover, Doc Scratch was a small man. He had a large, perfectly round and white head on a pair of prim shoulders wrapped in a set of crisp, white flannel pajamas. Grey skulls, assumedly green in real time, polka dotted his pajama pants. The doctor carried a mug of what Pickle Inspector recognized to be herbal tea, sipping it by holding it up to his featureless white ball of a head as he descended the stairs backwards, and turned from the landing to head in reverse down the hall. 

Pickle Inspector trailed him, moving slowly and feeling chills all over his body from the brush of his clothes on his skin and the shifting seas of reality all pressing in on each other now that time was flat. Trace paused the play back long enough to join them in the Manor’s enormous, old style kitchen. Then he took up a spot by one of the many clocks lining the walls and they watched Doc Scratch uneating a tuna sandwich. His featureless head bobbed towards his food with every ‘bite’, then he got up from the kitchen table and proceeded to unmake the sandwich. 

“Riveting stuff, huh?” Trace snorted, leaning against the kitchen counter and turning the clock back steadily. 

Pickle Inspector fished out his notepad and wrote scrawlingly because the mostly blank page kept bending into a horseshoe if he looked at it too closely when he wrote. His estimation of Slick’s trunking was just that, but even so he didn’t think the head of the Felt looked very busy or perturbed as he sat in his pajamas eating a sandwich late at night. He certainly didn’t look like he had drunk four or five cups of gin. 

“K-Keep rolling himmm back.” 

Doc Scratch moseyed back out of the kitchen, they followed him to the TV room and he sat there through several hours of reruns of _The Young and the Restless._

Crowbar and Snowman sat watching with him, and occasionally argued silently between episodes. That meant three of the most competent Felt members stayed in, relaxing away the evening they should have spent kidnapping Spades Slick. Something in the mundanity of it, or because he was watching a soap opera backwards, kept Pickle Inspector engaged enough to relax his mind. The trip still swelled around him but its currents and ebbs were dampened. 

Finally Doc Scratch got up, left the room and proceeded to sit in one of the side parlors, dipping a thimble of brandy against his head while he sat in a child’s rocking chair with a paperback that covered his whole lap. Pickle Inspector stood over his shoulder, waiting for a phone call or a visitor or something, anything, useful to show up. But there was nothing and then there was Trace’s voice behind him. 

“And that’s eight.” Trace said, leaning away from the pendulum clock they’d started at. “Guy was here doing shit all, all night.” 

Pickle Inspector stood tapping his notepad with his pen and nodded slowly. He was sweaty all over and powerfully thirsty but the thought of swallowing disgusted him. Even trying it made his throat stick to itself. He croaked at Trace. “His alb-bi checks out.” 

“You’re damn right.” Trace snapped, a smile Pickle Inspector didn’t like growing on his face. “Little Cue Ball never goes nowhere useful. Now you wanna know where you’re going?”

“St-Straight to hell?” Pickle Inspector guessed. 

“Straight to-- Aw, goddammit.” Trace snarled, pulling his arm back and balling his fist, about to punch the pendulum clock. He huffed harshly, thrown off his rhythm, then finished his swing and broke the face of the clock into a million pieces. 

They all heard glass breaking in the hall as Pickle Inspector and Trace came back to the present. Clover and Fin saw Trace go from toppling Pickle Inspector over to getting decked in the jaw by the snub-nose. The shattering glass added a little something, if Pickle Inspector was honest, and he sure tried to be. 

Pickle Inspector dropped his shoulder, using the momentum of his former fall to aid the punch he had choreographed. Trace fell to the floor, Pickle Inspector staggered away from him and pointed the snub-nose back at the TV. If Trace wasn’t aware of what a mistake it had been to leave Pickle Inspector with their bodies he was probably getting it now that he was face down on the rug. Clover and Fin stayed still on the couch, as tense as they’d been (what was for them) a split second ago. 

“Very tricky, hippie.” Trace rasped at him, shivering up from the floor. “But you’re never getting out of here after that.”

Pickle Inspector hummed in pain, his head splitting as his consciousness was hammered back into one limited, human brain. His eyes were dark and leering, and he shook his head. 

“I’m a mmman of my w-word.” He said slowly, looking at the three of them. Pickle Inspector stopped and gingerly retrieved his coat, bundling it under his arm. “I-If I fix the cable we can c-call it even.”

“Yeah but, but you’re not the cable guy.” Clover was sweating almost as much as Pickle Inspector, shaken by the idea of loving something he couldn’t protect. “How’re you gonna fix it?”

“M-Mr. Fin,” Pickle Inspector started moving to the archway into the parlor, keeping his gun trained on the TV. “You can t-take Trace forward to, to when the real c-cable operator comes. Th-Then you two can move them back innn time to whenever you want. You’ll h-have the cable fixed yesterday.”

Trace and Fin made serious, astonished eye contact. Clover looked amazed at the revelation and Pickle Inspector poked his head into the hall to be sure the coast was clear. He had the stretch down to the front door all to himself. 

“Say,” Clover spoke to his two comrades. “Isn’t it kind of lucky I let this guy in?”

“Shut up, Clover.”

“Can it, half pint.”

“Goodbye!” Pickle Inspector ducked out into the hall, not wasting his chance. “Th-Thank you!”

He sprinted, trippingly, weavingly, down the hall, leaned out the front door, and scrambled across the front porch. If there were green bodies chasing him he didn’t look back to find them. The cement path sang under his feet and Pickle Inspector skidded into the street to find a pair of round headlights and a toothy silver grill bearing down on him. 

Boxcars pulled the Gladiator around hard, the tires squealing as the truck hooked and shunted to a stop a foot from Pickle Inspector. He churned down his window and stuck his head out but by then Pickle Inspector had already yanked open the passenger’s side door and was throwing himself into the seat. 

“Oh, th-thank you thank you thank yooou,” He collapsed onto his pile of receipts, slamming his door shut and closing his eyes gratefully. Flopping into his seat he twisted himself up in the seatbelt and hung onto it with what little strength he had left. 

“Jesus, Pi, I almost hit you! Are you…?” Boxcars looked him over, watching Pickle Inspector tangle with his belt just enough to get it right on him and then melt back over the receipts and lean his face against the leather of the seat. “Are you okey?”

Pickle Inspector scoffed, shaking his head against the leather. His whole body went slack, the receipts rustling underneath him while he stretched his legs into the footwell and turned his cheek back to feel the warm leather. He smelled Hearts’s aftershave and sighed out heavily. 

“Let’s g-get out of here, i-it’s nnnot them.” Pickle Inspector covered his face with his hands, his skin sweaty and dry and sticky all at once. “I s-saw last nnnight, Dr. Scratch w-was j-just watching TV. The Felt didn’t--they didn’t do it.”

Beside him the dark, warm shape of Hearts Boxcars paused, looking at him, then hunched over the wheel and they lost no time getting out of the empty blocks of the rolling green. Pickle Inspector was aware of the truck moving fast, of Boxcars glancing between him and the road, and of how chilled and sweaty and thirsty he was. 

The infinite oneness slipped away from him and he was left with only a bad headache, a hollow stomach and the urge to curl up in his seat and sleep it all away. He closed his eyes, remembering the awful secret he was keeping and the pointless, dangerous, achy waste of time he’d taken them on so far. Hearts would call the case off again and then he’d have to go back to Franklin Street and say goodbye to all his best friends. 

It was so nice that they wanted to come with him to a watery grave but Pickle Inspector couldn’t let that happen. 

“Hey,” A warm hand closed over the fist that clutched his seatbelt. “You’re alright, Pi. You made it out fine, you’re safe as can be.”

Pickle Inspector knew that wasn’t true but the strength and warmth of the hand on his, the softness of the voice, convinced him for just a moment. And then he decided he didn’t mind the lie. It loosened the painfully knot of anxieties in his gut. 

“Rest your eyes a while,” The voice said, the warm hand holding his. Its thumb rubbed soothingly over the back of his hand. “I know where our next stop is.”

Egg timers and alarm bells and emergency sirens all went off in Pickle Inspector’s head but he didn’t lift it from the headrest. He didn’t force his tired eyes open and he let out a deep breath. The hand kept holding him and he slowly unfurled his fist to hold it back. 

They moved off to the next stop.


	7. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, as the last few chapters come together updates may be a little further between but that's just because I'm working hard to make sure the story gets the resolution it deserves. 
> 
> Misty by Sarah Vaughan: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptdIiXjiqkw  
> Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin (this is my favorite live cut, shows more personality than the studio version): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gvn5NREfFQc  
> Such Unlikely Lovers by Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K11ixyV1byg

“Spades Slick.” 

“Pompous Shitbird.”

“Let’s talk condiments.” Problem Sleuth jumped right back into negotiations after the surprise call from Pickle Inspector. He sat cross legged on the asphalt a few feet behind the Belvedere, directly in front of the busted tail light. The car was parked a ways down the access road behind 5017 Franklin Street’s parking lot, tucked alongside a dumpster in the shade and out of sight.

With a flourish Sleuth fwipped open his notebook and set it on his knee. “Now I got ketchup and I got mustard. You’re, I’m gonna say, a mustard man, yeah?”

“Are you serious?” Spat the needling voice from inside the trunk. “Relish! What the hell is wrong with you? Relish all day!”

“Relish, huh,” Sleuth scratched his temple with the back end of his pen and then jotted that down. “Okey and where did we land, one dog or two?”

“C’mon, what kind of detective forgets this much?” Slick made a sour face Sleuth could just see through the hole in the tail light. “Two, Shitbird, two hotdogs.”

“Hey, man, I got a lot on the docket today. We’re taking it one thing at a time.” Sleuth kept writing. “Anyway, let’s look on the bright side: you’re remembering better than I am. How’s that for good news?” 

Slick scoffed and rolled his red eye in the darkness of the trunk, hurting his bruised, wrung out, hungover brain. 

“Yeah, whoopdy-fucking-doo. You should be praying I forget some more, the second I get out of here you’re all dead, Sleuth.” He said it as a simple matter of fact, one he’d already assured Sleuth of several times today. 

“Hey, I’m just saying I’m happy you’re on the mend. You’ve come around from a blind rage to opening up these negotiations. That takes a lot, I’m real proud of you, Slick.”

“Negotiations for lunch, Problem.” Slick gave him a withering look. “Or are you gonna starve me until I offer you a deal?”

“C’mon Slick, be a friend. We’re the good guys, we’d never starve you.” Sleuth returned his look with an honest flash of his green eyes.

“Yeah you’d just keep me locked up in Fruitloop’s pink princess all day.”

“Right, you get it.” Sleuth smiled handsomely at him. 

Slick let out a long, throaty sigh. For a moment he closed his eye, his face lost in the darkness without it, and then he returned. 

“Get me a Coke too. Ah, wait no, Sprite.”

“You watching your figure, Slick?”

“Nah, Droog’s got a thing about dark soda, he says they’re toxic or bad for your teeth or something.”

“Well...” Problem Sleuth wound up for his pitch. “Droog’s not here, is he?”

“Huh,” came the hard noise from inside the trunk. “Yeah, okey, get me a Coke.”

“Two dogs, relish on both, a Coke and uh, how about we mix in a water? For the hangover.”

“I’m not hungover.” Slick said, red eyed and aching with a skull full of cement. “Who says I’m hungover?”

“You went out drinking last night, bud, I can smell it from here.” Sleuth told him. “No shame, but why don’t we put you back together some? Always important to stay hydrated.”

There was a silence from inside the trunk and then:

“Yeah, water’d be good.”

“You got it.” Sleuth popped up, palming his notebook and setting his pen behind his ear. He came around the front of Belvedere where Nervous Broad and Ace Dick were standing by the hood eating lunch. Seeing them working on two huge, foil wrapped and dripping shawarmas made Sleuth’s stomach growl and he sighed, watching his friend’s lunches instead of their faces. “Alright, a bunch of things. Pi’s in Felt Manor, Slick met Doc Scratch last night except the Felt don’t care about that, there’s this kid with a pug nose in the mix and Slick’s gonna have two hotdogs with relish, a Coke and a water. Are you two shawarma-heads really not gonna pitch in for his lunch?”

“After he kicked out my tail light I’m supposed to buy him lunch?” Ace said, sucking sauce off of his fingers. 

“You should, jackass, you’re the one who brought him here!” Sleuth gave it to him.

“Ride me,” Ace sank back into his pita. 

“Pickle’s in F-Felt Manor?” Broad gave Sleuth a wide, glassy stare. “Wh-Why is he innn Felt Manor?”

“It sounds like he’s buying us time but passed that, I really can’t say. Here’s what he told me.” He relayed to them everything from the phone call and none of it improved anyone’s mood. The puzzle of Slick’s kidnapping ended with the question of how Slick could have met Doc Scratch the night before without the rest of the Felt being involved. Or, at least, the majority of the household caring more about their cable than their boss’s bungled scheme. 

“A-And he thinks he’ll j-just walk out of there?” Broad plainly disliked the plan, reeling in her necklace without noticing she was smearing the beads in tzatziki. 

“He seems to think he can,” Sleuth said with a rueful shake of his head. “He was telling jokes about fixing the cable, so I guess he’s in a funny mood. Apparently he’s been joking around with Boxcars.” 

None of them knew what to make of that and Broad forcefully cleaned off her necklace with a fistful of napkins. 

“I should nnnever have let him go.” She said to her beads. 

“What were you gonna do, Broad? Put him over your shoulder and run?” Sleuth held her shawarma while she worked.

“It’s worked b-before.” Broad reminded him, looking up in time to find Sleuth taking a bite of her lunch. “Hey! You mooch!”

“Taxes, it’s tax.” Sleuth said with his mouth full, handing the shawarma back to Broad. She snatched it and pouted as he swallowed and sighed. “I don’t know, Pi could slip out of there okey but as to how we’re supposed to get him back before the rest of the Crew turns up? I got no clue.”

“We ought’a put Dame on it.” Ace spoke up. “She’s just watching the impound but they’re closed for the day anyhow. Let’s have her scoot over to the Manor, pick up Pickle’s trail. We need eyes on him.” 

“I can go to Felt Manor,” Broad said, a thin hand curled on her chin. “No need to mmmove Dame.”

“Broady, c’mon.” Ace shook his head and scowled. “You been made by the big guy already, once he sees you buzzing around even Boxcars will know something’s up. And that puts Pickle in a lot more danger. No, too risky. Better to have a new face on it, Dame’s face.” 

“I just w-won’t be seen,” Broad said, waving her shawarma through the air. “I’ll use a l-light touch, I won’t follow too c-closely.”

“Hell, Broad if you wanna get out there, somebody’s got to run down the Pug.” Sleuth told her. She narrowed her eyes and she nodded, covering her mouth as she thought. “C’mon and walk with me, Ace you mind holding down the fort?”

Ace shook his head and chewed and waved for them to mosey while he kept watch over his car. They walked up the access road and across the back parking lot. Broad crumpled the foil around her shawarma, moving the last few bites to the surface. 

“So this pug nnnosed character,” She spoke to her pita. “They helped kidnap Slick b-but we don’t know who they work for?” 

“More or less, Pi says they’re a liaison so, y’know, they’re a work for anybody type.” Sleuth scratched his chin as they strolled around the side of 5017. “You know what that means.”

“A bribe sh-should do nicely.” Broad nodded and walked closer to Sleuth, keeping her voice low as they moved down the sidewalk. “B-But, with Slick gone I daresay they w-would be a loose end for s-some very bad people.”

“Mmm, _good._ ” Sleuth raised his eyebrows. “The rat fink landed us right next to them on everybody’s shit list.”

“You don’t really think that.” Broad scolded him. 

“Listen this guy’s put us all in a lot of trouble, and Pickle’s got it worst of all because he’s got to keep that goon busy. I got no sympathy for this pug nosed punk.” Sleuth laid it out for her. 

“Maybe it’s f-for the best that I’m the one going.” Broad mused. “I’ll tell Pi y-you’re worried for him.”

“Thanks,” Sleuth said, nodding his head slowly. “As for the Pug, I guess we could front you something for a bribe to get them to talk. What’ve you and Dame got set aside?”

“A l-little over two grand.” Broad said sadly. Even with their busy schedules it was rare that they made enough to save for their bribery fund. 

“That’s a start, sure.” Sleuth nodded his head, thinking of the thirty-five dollars the original Team members had saved between the three of them. 

“But if money’s nnnot enough to get their attention...” Broad paused and munched on the sauce drenched end of her pita, balling up the foil. “I’ll nnneed just the right bait to reel them in.” 

Her wheels were turning for an answer, and seeing that Sleuth pursed his lips and led them to the hotdog stand on the corner. He twisted his own mental Rubix cube a few different ways and came up with this much:

“You’ll wanna tip your hand but keep it close to the vest. Maybe, what?” He started counting on his fingers. “You, me, Ace, Pi, Dame, The Crew, The Pug and the other kidnapper know Slick’s missing. That’s at the least eleven people, best case scenario. Pretty privileged information so you got something to trade with, at least.” 

“So y-you think I should go into L-Low Town by myself and mention to anyone of th-the street that I know Slick is mmmissing?” 

“No, no, well. Within reason, y’know. Tell it to people who’d know people. Bartenders and that. Any contacts you’ve got out there.” Sleuth rattled off his usual plan for flushing out a low-life. “Just don’t tell any guy you bump into on the street that you got Spades Slick in the trunk of your buddy’s car.”

The hotdog vendor looked Sleuth dead in the eyes as he said this, and Sleuth and Broad stared back at him, neither of them breathing. The vendor lowered his head on his round neck and cast his eyes disinterestedly at them and Sleuth ordered. The hotdogs were dished up in a pair of folded, already sweaty paper plates and Sleuth brought them over to the condiments. 

He and Broad spoke quietly over the ketchup dispenser. 

“I’ll bring the f-flamethrower, I suppose.” Broad felt on her hip for her purse and remembered she’d left it in her office, effectively forcing Ace to buy her lunch. “J-Just as a precaution. We c-can’t know who will pop up once I st-start spreading rumors.” 

“Smart.” Sleuth loaded both hotdogs with relish. “And a little extra firepower won’t hurt when you find Pi.” 

“Exactly right.” Broad nodded. They both looked grim and Sleuth took both hotdogs in one hand, the drinks in the other. “As soon as I c-can, Sleuth, I’ll get him back.” 

“You’re a good friend, Broad.” Sleuth’s expression stayed hard but he smiled, waving the hand with the drinks at her. “Just make sure you use that light touch when you tail him. If anything happens to you two it’ll just be us shorties left over and we’d never reach a top shelf ever again.” 

Broad chuckled and grew thoughtful again, running through everything she knew about Low Town as they meandered back to the Belvedere. 

“Before you hit the bricks, let me see what our guest remembers about the Pug.” Sleuth told her as they came down the access road. He walked around to the back of the Belvedere and sat in his usual spot while Broad and Ace watched from the other end of the bumper. He whistled into the tail light and saw Slick’s eye open and focus on him. 

“Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen, Slick. I’m gonna put these hotdogs through the tail light and there won’t be room enough for you to stab me in the face while I do it. If you try it anyway you’re getting starved and I won’t even care. Work for you?”

“Hell, don’t talk me into something here, Problem.” 

“Yeah, I’m not feeling any kind of confidence about that. Look, I got you these.” Sleuth picked up both drinks and waved them in Slick’s line of sight. He crinkled the cold water bottle and the sound moved cooly and numbingly through Slick’s aching body for just a second. “So unless you want to watch me drink both of them right now I need some assurance of no stabbing. None, _nada_ , nothing of the kind. We got a deal?” 

Slick sneered at the hole in the tail light, then closed his bleary eye and nodded. 

“Okey, fine. Gimme the water first.” 

“Alright.” Sleuth scooted close to the tail light and fed the water bottle, then the Coke through the hole. He heard the water bottle ‘crunkle’ open and then loud, wet drinking through the darkness. It wasn’t something he cared to listen to so he fed the hot dogs through and then backed to his spot on the asphalt. The extremely loud sucking and slurping finally ended and the first of the hotdogs moved out of view. Sleuth fwipped out his notebook again and perched it on his knee, clicking his pen as a spray of meat and spit and relish splattered over him. 

Ace barked out a belly laugh, Broad covered a gasp with both hands and then closed them over her mouth to trap a laugh of her own. 

“Christ!”

“What the hell, man!”

“You trying to poison me, Shitbird?!” Another spray followed, then the second hotdog shot out of the Belvedere. Sleuth dancing out of its way only to be hit by the remains of the first hotdog.

“I swear to God, Slick—” Sleuth stood shaking relish and meat off his pants. 

“Trying to feed me this street meat crap,” Slick huffed. “You think you’re real funny, huh Shitbird?”

“Are you kidding me?” Sleuth didn’t hide his frustration. “This is about the hotdog?!”

“What else? God, fuck, ugh, it’s disgusting. You got that from some guy with a billion of those rancid things half-boiled in a stand?”

“Yes! Christ, where else Slick?”

“Fucking A, and I really thought you were gonna go to that place that serves the good hotdogs-- Payaya Queen!” Slick snarled from the trunk. “You don’t even think about the shit you put in your body, do you?”

“What is this, more Droog logic?”

“He’s right, that street meat shit is toxic!” 

“I don’t believe this. What foods _aren’t_ toxic according to Droog?” Sleuth rubbed his face and shook off more relish, looking down at the discarded hotdogs, perfectly good until they hit the ground. 

“You want me to feed ‘em to him, Sleuth?” Ace laughed from the bumper. Sleuth shoved the idea away and leveled with Slick, bending double to look in on him and standing just out of stabbing range. 

“Okey, your Highness, tell me something.”

“Enh?” Slick noised from the trunk. 

“What were you drinking last night that’d leave such a stink on you if you’re too precious for street meat?”

“Alcohol’s,” Just saying word made a heavy, chunky, tangy glob rise in Slick’s throat and he swallowed it back, guessing he couldn’t vomit hard enough to hit Sleuth from here. “A germ killer. You get enough gin in you and it don’t matter what you eat.” 

“Ugh, gin,” Sleuth made a sick face. “Who in their right mind would drink that stuff? Was that your taste or your pug nosed buddy’s?”

“Augh, Pug Nose,” Slick hissed contemptuously, then peered out at Sleuth. “How do you know about them, Sleuth?” 

“I’m a professional, Slick. I got ways of knowing things. Like I know they’re the one who got you stuck where you are now.”

“No, Problem, you’re the one doing that.” Hatred beamed out of his bloodshot eye. 

“Call it a Team effort,” Sleuth smiled at his own joke and Slick did not. “But you know what I mean, they’re the one who got you kidnapped.” 

“Yeah,” Slick sounded like he was putting the pieces together, but lacked any comprehension of the greater puzzle. “Yeah, they did.”

“So who are they? Who do they work for?”

Slick thought hard, his brain straining to find last night, and after the effort he only sighed a harsh, wet sigh. 

“They’re some new tough, I never heard of ‘em before. Popped up, talking about some deal and then… Well, last night I kind of got loaded and then…” He trailed off with a throaty wheeze, shrugging his shoulders. “I ended up here.”

“Hell of a deal. How’d you get in touch with them?” Sleuth asked. 

“Nah, I don’t know.” Slick grumbled. “They find you. They’re a weasely little bastard, only shows up when they think it’s worth their while.” 

Sleuth clicked his tongue and straightened up, combing his hand through his hair. Broad huffed quietly and shook her head, then checked her watch. 

“I should get out there,” She told Ace, who nodded heavily. “You’ll call if he d-does remember something?”

“You’ll be the first to hear it. And remember, Broady, you’re after the Pug, not Pickle.” Ace told her. Broad nodded, rolling her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Yes, Ace, I won’t go looking for our t-trapped teammate.” 

“But, say you do see him,” Sleuth put in, stepping away from Slick for the moment. “You oughta see if you can’t get him away nice and sneaky, like.”

“Don’t encourage her.” Ace gave Sleuth a firm smack on the side. “Find the Pug, Broady, and keep in touch.”

She left them to reconnoiter, Ace rumbling about other lines of questioning while Sleuth meditatively applied his eucalyptus-agave-mango-berry-blast chapstick. 

Broad went up in the elevator, put together her purse, brought her flamethrower out of its locked closet and checked its fuel. Everything was in working order. She locked up her office and Dame’s and then came down to the lobby. Pulling open the metal gate, she picked up the flamethrower in both hands and muscled it out of the elevator. Keeping it pointed down, she held the body of the thing against her hip and the bar that directed its nose with her other hand. 

A figure about Sleuth’s height stood watching her by the mailboxes at the very front of the building. 

They wore a dark grey tweed suit, shoulder length hair and an upturned nose that looked like it had been broken and set a few times too many. Broad clocked a hotdog with mustard in one hand, folded into a sweaty paper plate. They turned to her as she came through the lobby, an odd kind of recognition showing on their face. 

“Excuse me,” The pug nose whistled as they spoke up. “Do you work here?”

“I-I do,” Broad nodded. She paused by the mailboxes, handling the flamethrower carefully. Without it her chances of grabbing them, hauling them over her shoulder and running out to Sleuth and Ace would be much better. But she noticed the Pug’s other hand was holding onto a long, heavy shape in their pocket. Having the flamethrower in her arms didn’t seem so bad. “Can I help you?”

“You know where I could find this guy?” They waved their hotdog at Ace Dick’s mailbox.

“Mr. Ace? Why, isn’t he innn his office?”

“No, I just checked. Turns out the whole Team is missing today.”

“Hmm,” Broad knit her brow and looked at the mailboxes. “W-Well, perhaps they t-took the day off. It is S-Saturday after all.” 

“Maybe.” Pug Nose kept a close eye on her. “It’s just I heard the funniest story about this guy. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” 

“Me? Oh, nnno, I c-can’t say that I am.” Broad shuffled shyly, shifting the weight of the flamethrower so she could sway girlishly with it. “Mr. Ace is a bit too b-borish for my taste.” 

“Huh. How about the other one, Problem Sleuth?” 

“I knnnow him well enough to say ‘hello.’ What’s all th-this about?”

Pug Nose gave no answer, only hummed and looked at the mailboxes again and then looked Broad up and down. She looked right back at them, hanging onto the neck of the flamethrower and calculating how barbequed a suspect could be before they were no longer inclined to be helpful.

Pug Nose let go of their gun, brought their hand drifting up out of their pocket and shrugged. They took a bite of their hotdog. 

“Just a funny story I heard. Thanks for the help.” 

They turned and walked into the revolving doors and were gone. 

“I have g-got to stop meeting people like this.” Broad told herself, waiting a few moments before she followed them out. 

She kept her distance as they walked around the side of the building into the back lot. Pug cast a look back and found her, but didn’t do much about it. Their hand went back to the heavy shape in their pocket. Broad took her time walking to her car, keeping her glances at Pug careful and quick. While she leisurely stowed her flamethrower in the trunk of her Beetle, they walked the length of the parking lot and looked across it. Pug Nose stood at the back of the lot a while, the only thing separating them from the access road being the building's huge dumpsters. Finally they stalked back into the rows of cars and climbed into a grey sedan.

Broad settled in the cab of her Beetle and put on a new coat of lipstick in her fold-down mirror, watching the grey sedan prowling the perimeter of the lot. The sedan pulled around the side of the building and into the street and was gone. She took off after it, keeping a block between them as they moved south towards Low Town. 

* * *

The Gladiator parked and Pickle Inspector stayed in the shelter of the warm darkness behind his eyelids. The hand holding his squeezed once, cozily, then slipped away as the truck stilled and its engine quieted. Boxcars patted Pickle Inspector’s empty stomach and the detective was surprised that he didn’t sound as hollow as a drum. He certainly felt ravenously hungry.

“We’re here, Inspector. Sorry to say but nap time’s over.”

“I’mmm just resting mmmy eyes,” Pickle Inspector insisted, his voice slow and sleepy. “I’ll be a detective innn just another minute.”

Boxcars snorted and Pickle Inspector could hear him smiling as he spoke.

“I don’t mind if you ain’t a detective.”

“Oh, th-thank goodness.” Pickle Inspector pressed his eyes closed tight for one more second of calm blackness, then opened them and looked up at the roof of the truck. “Okey. I’mmm as ready as I’ll e-ever be.”

He dragged himself upright by his door’s handle and caught Boxcars watching him.

“The Felt really worked you over, huh?” 

He nodded and then shook his head, squinting passed Boxcars out his window. They were in a parking lot, not Franklin Street’s (thank goodness) but he couldn’t tell much more than that. 

“I s-sort of had, I suppose, an a-allergic reaction to going outside of time.” Pickle Inspector spoke with his big eyes just a sliver open, most of the color gone from his face and his collar and hair sticking up from laying back against the seat. “Going b-back in time doesn’t turn everything into a b-bad headtrip for you, does it?”

“A bad headtrip?” Boxcars looked astounded. “No, nothing like that. The couple times I tangled with Trace I only ever saw people walking backwards.” 

Pickle Inspector nodded gently, trying not to boggle his eyeballs too hard in his aching face. The power of the universe and all the different lives he had lived as everything that had or would ever be melted into the cosmic fabric binding all of reality together and was just as elusive and untouchable to him now as it had been when he woke up that morning. That left Pickle Inspector with a dry, wrung out brain and a case of sweaty chills. Those were to be expected, but the hunger that gripped him was new. He moved his tongue around his dry mouth and sighed. 

“Th-That’s what I thought. I tend to feel the infinite onnneness of being mmmore intensely than others.” 

“‘The infinite oneness of being.’” Pickle Inspector could see the knot that tied in Boxcars’s head as he said it. “Jesus, Inspector, I didn’t think you good guys went in for that hippie stuff.” 

“The others d-don’t,” Pickle Inspector shrugged innocently. “Th-That’s why I’m the Team’s oneness eh-expert.” 

“You think you know a guy...” Boxcars looked at him and smiled slowly. “And that’s what you saw when you went out of time? I thought they’d just roughed you up.” 

A cloud passed over his face as he said it, his smile vanishing at the thought of those green dinguses hurting Pickle Inspector. 

“Oh nnno,” Pickle Inspector shook his head an inch one way and then an inch the other way. “I s-saw plenty but they, they didn’t do anything.” 

“You’re not just saying that?” Boxcars cocked an eyebrow at him. “Because you don’t gotta be a good guy to the Felt, y’know.”

“I know,” Pickle Inspector gave him a feeble smile that took a great deal of effort and didn’t make it the few inches up to his eyes. “B-Boxcars, where are we?”

“Aw, well, I don’t know about all that oneness and infinity stuff but I do know messing with time will always leave you hungry as hell.” Boxcars opened his door and nodded out through it. Pickle Inspector opened his own door, his brow wrinkling, and was greeted by the smell of hickory, wood smoke, and something familiar and sweet and savory all at once. 

He gathered a breath and the strength to stand, shuffling the pile of receipts under him as he poked his head out of the truck. They were in a small parking lot alongside a building with ‘Jo Anne’s Smoke House’ painted up its brick facade. It hit him in a rush: he was smelling smoked meat and barbeque sauce. 

“Oh, Boxcars.” Pickle Inspector was overwhelmed by how hollow and hungry he felt, slipping out of the truck and tossing all the wayward receipts back over his seat. He shrugged off his coat and dumped it over the swarm of receipts, its weight had only made him sweatier without warming him at all. “You shouldn’t have.” 

There was a deep, sharp laugh from the other side of the truck and Boxcars walked around the back to face him. 

“You need me to carry you in?” He said as Pickle Inspector leaned against the side of the truck and inched along it. 

“I’m fine,” Pickle Inspector pushed off the truck and stepped by him, brushing Boxcar’s arm with his hand. “J-Just, running on empty.” 

“I kind of wondered.” Boxcars turned and walked in step with him. “When was the last decent meal you had, Inspector?” 

“Do a few h-handfuls of granola and some tea count?” Pickle Inspector asked as they came around to the front door. Boxcars scoffed and held it open for him, the bell inside chiming happily. 

“What d’you think?” 

Pickle Inspector snorted softly and strolled inside, moving close enough to Boxcars to feel the warmth emanating from him. Even on a cold day like today, and without his jacket no less, Boxcars ran hot. 

They stepped into a single, wide dining room. Jo Anne’s was unpainted, red brick everywhere with a sea of square tables and black pleather booths along either wall. The place didn’t want for color, as every available inch of wall was covered in album covers, framed records, sheet music, movie posters and signed snapshots of an older woman with a sharp smile and as many celebrities as Pickle Inspector could name.

A jukebox by the door let out Sarah Vaughan’s rich, sweet voice, telling the world: 

_You can say that you're leading me on,_

_But it's just what I want you to do._

_Don't you notice how hopelessly I'm lost?_

_That's why I'm following you._

Real, actual, normal people dotted the tables, late lunchers who didn’t even notice Hearts Boxcars or Pickle Inspector as they came in. A host met them and brought them to a circular booth in the back corner of the dining room, near the window into the kitchen. More sweet, spicy, smoky aromas than ever washed over them. Their host handed Pickle Inspector a laminated menu and addressed Boxcars.

“Your table, _Mr. Hearts._ ” They spoke with the elaborate and gently sarcastic grace of a kidding friend, putting on a posh accent. “Will you be having your usual, _sir?_ ” 

“Yes, that will be fine.” Hearts spoke with the same overwrought tone, smiling as he settled into the booth. When he sat Pickle Inspector felt the curved seat cushion they shared swell under him. “Thank you, Nick.”

“You got it. I’ll have someone over for your order in a minute, hon.” Nick told Pickle Inspector, who shook his head and handed back the menu. 

“I’ll have the same thing.” He said. “A-And a pitcher of water.”

Both of them looked at him. 

“You’re gonna eat a whole rack of ribs in their secret marinade and drink three beers?” Hearts asked. 

“Ohh, of course there’s a s-secret marinade,” Pickle Inspector closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m ready. B-But no beer, you’re driving remember?”

“It’s a couple beers.” Hearts made a face at him. 

“So you want me to d-drive?”

“Nobody drives my truck but me,” Hearts toughened up and Pickle Inspector shone his big eyes at him. 

“Well I’mmm not getting in if you’ve been drinking.”

“I like this guy,” Nick said, the menu tucked under their arm. “Hearts you gonna start bringing him around? Should I tell Jo Anne?”

“Let’s not get her hopes up,” Hearts pushed the idea away with both hands. “Sweet tea, and the water.” 

“Alright,” Nick said, with a shake of their head. “You, uh, you said you want a pitcher?”

“A b-big one.” Pickle Inspector nodded. As hungry as he was it didn’t hold a candle to his extreme thirst. “Thank you very much.”

Nick walked off and Pickle Inspector leaned against their table, looking around the dining room at the record albums and signed celebrity photos along the walls. Most of the faces he recognized as musicians, though the odd movie star or race car driver appeared. 

“I think I see why you like this place,” He said slowly, scanning the walls. “And you kn-know Ms. Jo Anne herself?”

“Yeah, Jo Anne’s something else, real old school.” Hearts said, resting his big arm along the back of their booth. “She told us and the Felt both, if we tried to take over her block she’d sit in here with a shotgun and shells waiting for us. And that just ain’t worth it for a little local place so, y’know, why fight the old lady for it?” 

“She thr-threatened you with a shotgun and now you’re pals?”

“Well, y’know, some people just really knew how to make an impression.”

“Ahh, yes, a f-first impression is a lasting one,” Pickle Inspector nodded.

“You gotta admire the sand.” Hearts smiled at the memory. “And it’s real old fashioned, right? Up front, what’s mine is mine and I’ll shoot you about it. You don’t get that kind of clarity with people anymore.”

“No, I don’t s-suppose you do.” Pickle Inspector leaned back against the booth, turning his body towards Hearts. “So you told her h-how much you admire her?”

“Well, I told her I admired her cooking first. That got me in good and the rest followed.”

“That’s adorable.” Pickle Inspector smiled a genuine, if tired, smile. Hearts watched his face and thought something and laughed a soft, private laugh at his own expense. 

“What?”

“Naw, nothing. It’s too cheesy.” 

Pickle Inspector perked up.

“Well nnnow you have to tell me.” 

Hearts brought his eyes up and gave him a sincere look, his mouth in a low curl as he admitted: 

“I was just thinking it’s good to see you smile again.” 

“Oh-hhh, boy,” Pickle Inspector closed his eyes on impact and shook his head softly, letting out a breath. “You were right, th-that’s bad.” 

“Cut me a little slack, huh? It ain’t easy being cheesy, y’know.” 

“Just terrible,” Pickle Inspector shook his head and laughed. He sighed slowly out of his laugh and then ran both hands down from his tall forehead over his thin cheeks and along his bony nose. With a shake of his head he looked a little more human just in time to see Nick returning with their drinks. They set down Hearts’s tea and poured Pickle Inspector a glass of water, leaving the plastic pitcher on the table. He thanked them and drank gratefully before he spoke again. The detective set down his plastic cup and spoke with a measure more strength than he’d walked in with. “I suppose you w-want to know what I saw with Tra-Trace.” 

Hearts nodded over his tea, squeezing the lemon wedge clean out of existence. 

“Yeah, let’s hear about your trip.” 

“It was something e-else. Dr. Scratch was innn all last night.” Pickle Inspector drank the rest of his water in a few gulps and paused to pour himself another cup. Then he told Hearts everything he’d seen in the Manor. “I don’t know h-how the Felt could be involved when all they’ve b-been doing is watching TV. I watched the door all nnnight, no one went anywhere, Slick was nnnever there.” 

“And you found this out… By holding their TV hostage.” Hearts sat with his arms spread over the back of the booth, cocking an eyebrow at Pickle Inspector. 

“I told you, Boxcars, I can really th-think on my feet.”

Hearts snorted and nodded, cracking his knuckles slowly as he thought over everything he’d been told. 

“But they could, y’know, run back and forth through last night and just make it look like they didn’t take him.” Hearts said. “Say they did that, and it’s a fake alibi.”

“They couldn’t have known I w-was coming, so why prepare s-so much? And, and I didn’t see a second Trace anywhere. It’s just, just a deadend. The Felt didn’t do it.”

Hearts blew out a long breath and clicked his tongue, his brow knotting as he glanced down at the table. He pursed his lips and then pushed his round chin at Pickle Inspector slowly. 

“I guess I oughta say thanks for stopping me before. Would’ve been a dumb thing to get dead over, us running in there when they don’t even have Slick.” He sured himself up, sitting up and squaring his big shoulders. “Thank you, Inspector. You did me a real favor.” 

Pickle Inspector got his color back in a rush. His cosmic fatigue eased with the thought that he had saved at least three men’s lives today. He couldn’t say if it was a real favor, since he was being paid, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter right now. 

“What’re friends for?” He said with another tired smile.

“Right.” Hearts’s bright, crooked smile gleamed back at him. “So where do we go from here? Track down the sharper with the busted nose?”

“They’re our best lead,” Pickle Inspector nodded. “I-It’s just a matter of finding them.”

“If they haven’t already left town with all the money they made snatching Slick they’re not gonna slip up and just bump into us again.” Hearts spoke heavily.

“I don’t know,” Pickle Inspector knew more about the kidnapping, after all, and had a different picture of Pug Nose in his mind. “They’re a loose end e-even if they’ve been p-paid off. Would the Crew just leave them be if they’d helped you k-kidnap someone?” 

Hearts shook his head, touching his chin as something occurred to him. 

“They’d get made for that. A guy shows that kind of sand and can deliver on it? They’d become part of the family. Any good mob wouldn’t just leave an operator like that out in the wind. So you think Pug Nose is trying to make a name for themself? Crooked little bastard…”

“It--It would mean if we find the Pug we find the other k-kidnappers.” There was, of course, the crunch that for all that Pug Nose had delivered, the package had been misrouted and now whoever had ordered one Spades Slick had lost him. It didn’t bode well for the liaison who’d set the whole thing up, made or not. “If they’re just s-some chisler then, mmmaybe if we ask around we can lure them out. We could s-say we were celebrating them getting made.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be delighted having me there to congratulate them.” 

Pickle Inspector tilted his head on his swan’s neck, his lips pinching together in a contemplative smile. 

“Maybe I’ll do the a-asking around.” He moved his eyes from Hearts’s face to his hand, where it sat inches from Pickle Inspector’s shoulder on the back of their booth. The light was just right for him to make out the heart etched into the face of his ring. “I’m nnnot as scary as you are, so I can make nice with a wanna-be mobster.”

“Yeah, not at first.” Hearts reached over and finally smoothed down Pickle Inspector’s wrinkled collar. “But then you get that look in your eyes and you start holding guys’ TVs hostage.” 

Pickle Inspector ducked his head and laughed, turning his face from Hearts. 

“You laugh, but that’s mighty cold blooded, Pi.” Hearts grinned at him and poked the detective’s collarbone to punctuate his point. 

“Being the one-oneness expert doesn’t mmmean I’m a pushover.” Pickle Inspector shrugged and gave a small smile and Hearts realized this was a real dopey blonde look. It was even cuter than the one he put on to weasel out of trouble. “But sc-scary? I have to doubt that.”

“Okey boys, look what ole Nick’s got for you.” Nick appeared at the edge of their table with a wide black tray on their shoulder. They eased the tray down and two glistening racks of ribs glimmered and steamed at them. Hearts hummed appreciatively and Pickle Inspector’s hollow stomach groaned. Nick handed both of them a heavy plate. “Now it’s not a race so when stretch wolfs his down ahead of you, Hearts, you don’t gotta feel bad.” 

“You’re a funny one, Nick.” Hearts flashed his teeth at them. Nick looked seriously to Pickle Inspector. 

“No pressure but I’ve got ten bucks riding on you.”

“I w-won’t let you down.” Pickle Inspector was already pulling an army of napkins out of the dispenser to see him through this. Nick moved back to the front of the dining room, where a few of the last late lunchers were mingling out into the street. The jukebox played something new, Dean Martin crooning through the dining room: 

_Everybody finds somebody someplace,_

_There's no telling where love may appear._

_Something in my heart keeps saying,_

_That someplace is right here._

Pickle Inspector unrolled his silverware and put the napkin over his lap. He picked up his fork and stabbed it between the third and fourth ribs, in the densest part of the meat, holding the rack still while he started sawing it apart with his steak knife.

“See, that’s exactly what I mean.” Hearts cracked off a rib and pointed it at him. “You say you ain’t scary and then you get that look. Makes you the kind of maniac that steals a guy’s gun just when he’s about to shoot it.”

“Me?” Pickle Inspector stopped sawing long enough to pull one honey glazed, dripping and lightly charred rib loose with a loud snap. “A maniac?”

“And that’s exactly the look. Put them bug eyes away, huh?”

Pickle Inspector laughed and felt his face warming up. 

“Y-You’re not scared of me, now are you, Boxcars?”

“Me? No, ‘course not. But I don’t figure I want to get on your bad side, I got Tavros to think of.”

“Oh h-he’ll be fine,” Pickle Inspector chewed and swallowed. “I’ll get him another b-book and he’ll be h-happy as a clam. Mmmaybe I’ll show him how to play D-Dungeons and Dragons, that will keep himmm distracted.”

“He’d love that.” Hearts could picture the delighted grin and goofy, nervy excitement on his son’s face.

“Really?” The same look crossed Pickle Inspector’s face.

Hearts puffed a laugh between his chewing teeth and nodded.

“Y’know, he really thinks we ought to get coffee.” He told him. 

Pickle Inspector’s eyes widened and he shook his head, cleaning off a bone and mopping his hands with napkins. 

“You told him it, it j-just couldn’t work.” He replied, reaching for another glass of water. 

“Told him, even paid him to keep quiet to his uncles about it.” 

“Oh god,” Pickle Inspector hadn’t even considered that angle. “G-Good, yes, that w-would be the last thing we needed. H-He’s an imaginative boy but, well, y-you know.” 

His tone softened as he made the same bargain he’d made time and again. 

“Some things just don’t work out.” Hearts put it into words just before he could.

They turned melancholily to their plates, and both found some comfort in good food. After a while of eating they came up for air.

Pickle Inspector finished another glass of water and Hearts sat with his eyes closed, poking his tongue at a piece of grizzle stuck between his teeth.

“Not bad for your first time.” Hearts poked one eye open, the rest of him sitting in solid, deliberate repose. Pickle Inspector waved a finger at him, wringing his hands with napkins. 

“Keep it up. You’re c-cocky, you’ll slip up soon. A l-lot of Nick’s money is on the line.” 

“If you say so.” Hearts smiled slowly as Pickle Inspector eased back against the booth. He swallowed one last time behind his dainty hand and then sighed. His long face turned thoughtful behind the blush and sweat from his meal. 

“So, the Pug.” He said, looking from Hearts’s ring, up his arm to his round shoulder and into his face. “What happens to themmm? Isn’t, isn’t there even a ch-chance to talk things out?”

“Do I really need to say it, Inspector?” Hearts frowned at him and Pickle Inspector’s eyes swirled away from his face. “No. There’s no talking their way out of what they did.”

“I-I just mmmean. If they _could_ strike a deal, if they had a way to b-be useful, to do you a favor. Would you h-hear them out?”

Hearts sat like a mountain across from Pickle Inspector, his face turning back into the dark mask he’d worn that morning. The only change was a softness at his eyes as he held Pickle Inspector’s gaze and slowly, significantly, raised his eyebrows.

Pickle Inspector’s mouth twisted closed and he crossed his narrow arms and nodded. 

“I’ll keep my word. We won’t kill ‘em, so you ain’t got that on your conscience.” Hearts was frank and honest. “But passed that, Hell. We can’t let kidnapping our boss stand, now can we?”

Pickle Inspector’s eyes darted around.

“I--Well, if I, if it was a-all up to mmme of c-course I would tr-try and--”

“Inspector.”

The detective let out a sigh and nodded again, chewing his lips and looking away.

“It’s j-just,” with his own fate sealed, Pickle Inspector thought of Pug Nose for real this time. “W-We mmmight flush them out if, if we could offer them a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Hearts already didn’t like the idea.

“If we could offer some l-leniency, mmmaybe the Pug would flip sides. At least we c-could get their attention easier.”

Hearts sucked the gristle out of his teeth and then tilted his head from one shoulder to the other. 

“It’d have to be one hell of a deal to flip a guy who just got made. But if it was just to flush ‘em out… Let me think on it.” He watched Pickle Inspector tighten back up, looking as anxious as ever as he receded into his head. Hearts reached over and bonked Pickle Inspector’s shoulder with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s talk about something else. Tell me what else you saw on your trip.”

“Trip to where?” 

“What else did you see when you were all,” Hearts put up both hands and wiggled his fingers. He whistled a low, sci-fi sound effect of a whistle. “In tune with the oneness of infinity?”

“Oh- _Oh_ , you want to knnnow about that?”

“Sure, I never seen it.” Hearts leaned back against the booth. “So what’s it like? Did you see all kinds of crazy things?”

“W-Well,” Pickle Inspector put his elbow on the back of the booth, tucking his chin against his palm and tilted his head from it. “You do see things b-but, it’s not a vision or anything q-quite like that. Mostly you f-feel things and you think them. And you spend a fair amount of time watching the p-patterns on the rug wiggle around. That’s about how much you s-see things.” 

“So no visions of me?” Hearts waggled his eyebrows. He thought it would get another laugh out of Pickle Inspector but instead the detective’s face quieted as he remembered. 

“N-No, but. At one point I remembered that you w-weren’t there and it was…” Pickle Inspector lifted his eyes to Hearts’s. They were a soft, cold blue, fragile the way the rest of him was, hiding real strength behind that glassy facade. “I r-really am glad to have you back.”

Hearts’s color deepened and Pickle Inspector went on. 

“I didn’t i-imagine we would mmmake a good team, and yet. We r-really do.”

“You think?” Hearts smiled. “I kind of think so too.”

A glimmering tune played from the front, the smooth, clear voice of Elvis Costello drifted through the air: 

_There were no magic spells,_

_You can keep the flowers and bells,_

_They just don't seem right._

_Can it actually be?_

_Me and you and you and me,_

_Though we're like day and night?_

“Ohh… I-Is that too on the nose?” Pickle Inspector looked at him and Hearts read his own thoughts in his eyes. 

“It’s been like that all day,” Hearts shook his head, leaning heavily against the table. “Some disc jockey has really got it out for us, huh?” 

“Maybe they should be our nnnext missing person.”

“You mean you want them to go missing?” Hearts smiled slowly. “I guess we could arrange that.”

“Well, not missing,” Pickle Inspector did seem to consider it for a moment, giving one of his blonde shrugs. “B-But we could teach them a lesson in, in minding their b-business.”

“Y’know, I think I’m starting to rub off on you.” 

Pickle Inspector smiled a quick, intelligent smile, his eyes bright. 

“Mmmaybe. Then again, I got you to be a good guy already. So, so who’s rubbing off on wh-whom?” 

“What do you mean?” Hearts knit his brow and watched Pickle Inspector over a new rib. 

“At F-Florian’s, you let the b-bartender off easy.”

“Oh, you mean that trick with his hand?”

“You didn’t b-break anything and we got everything we needed!” Pickle Inspector nodded eagerly. “It was, well, very generous of you.”

“You don’t need to butter me up,” Hearts grinned nonetheless. “After all, I was following your lead, remember?”

“Yes,” Pickle Inspector folded his long hands together. He spoke quietly and carefully. “B-But what I mmmean is… You’re kinder than you, than you let on.” 

“I guess now I better tell you.”

“T-Tell me what?”

“I only did all that with the bartender to get you to laugh.”

Pickle Inspector’s eyes softened and darkened with a laugh now. 

“Yes well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Now let me guess,” Hearts leaned his chin on his fist. “This is where you tell me you’d find it real hilarious if I took mercy on the Pug.” 

“You could break their nnnose again if you like.” Pickle Inspector gave him an earnest glow from those blue eyes. “B-But we’ll need to negotiate with themmm to find Slick. So, so yes, maybe a light touch would do it.”

“Oh yeah, sounds just like my kind of work.” Hearts rolled his eyes. 

“Th-this will be the boring part of detective work, sure. Lots of t-talking to people and h-hardly any bar fights.” Pickle Inspector looked into his face here. “But, well, you do have a little bruise already. So maybe that’s for the best.”

“Do I?” Hearts touched the cheek that had interacted with a pool cue a few hours earlier. “You sure it ain’t just barbeque sauce?”

“No,” Pickle Inspector reached up and touched it, a softly purple stretch just above Hearts’s chin. The mobster hissed lightly at his touch. “Ah, sorry.”

“S’alright,” Hearts felt his color deepening and the bruise vanished again. “Your hands are just cold, is all.”

“Poor circulation,” Pickle Inspector said softly, stretching and curling the fingers of both hands. Before he could move away Hearts took his hand and he was wrapped up in his strong and gentle grip again. Warmth pressed into his long fingers as Hearts gave him a squeeze. He drew in a breath, looked at their hands folded together. “Hearts, c-can I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” Hearts’s blush glowed when Pickle Inspector used his first name. 

“Wh-Why did you hire me? You were going to, to do this your way b-but you decided to c-come find me instead. So… Why?” 

Hearts felt the room go dark, a spotlight flashing to life and focusing on him, and through its beaming light he could just make out Pickle Inspector watching his face thoughtfully, quietly. 

“Ah, well, you know, you always want the right tool for the right job, right? Detectives and missing people, it’s just natural.” He managed. Hearts watched Pickle Inspector clock his weak answer, not a lie but not the truth, and decide not to press him. He was surprised that his indifference disappointed him.

“You really don’t want me to tell Jo Anne about your new flame, Hearts?” 

“Nick!” Hearts let go to Pickle Inspector and they both scooted a few inches further from each other. “What new flame? Are you--are you crazy?”

“D-Don’t be ridiculous, Nnnick.”

“Oh, okey, I see. This is like a will-they, won’t-they situation. I can dig it.” They put down a check on a small plastic tray, the bill written on the same slip as their order. “Well I hate to ruin the mood but we’re gonna be closing up for lunch in another ten minutes, boys.”

Hearts scooped up the bill and looked at it with one eye closed, determinedly distracting himself. Nick put a hand out to take Pickle Inspector’s plate. 

“Can I get you a box, hon?”

Pickle Inspector nodded and handed over his leftovers. Before he could take a look at the check Hearts pulled out his wallet, put several bills on the little tray and handed it to Nick. They slipped the bill into their pocket, took the plate in one hand, and Nick walked off, glancing over their shoulder for another glimpse of a moment between them. 

“What do I owe?” Pickle Inspector took his own wallet out only for Hearts to frown and shake his head. 

“Nothing, this is, what do you snoops call it? Expenses.” 

“Th-That’s just an old trick some guys use to g-get a free lunch,” Pickle Inspector said, thinking of Sleuth and Ace.

“Well lucky you, you don’t even have to trick me into paying for you.” Hearts winked at him. Pickle Inspector couldn’t hide a smile, his eyes resigned and soft. 

“Th-Thank you, Boxcars.” 

“Sure.” Boxcars nodded, looking away. 

“Here you go, hon.” Nick popped up with Pickle Inspector’s box. They addressed the table, but directed a wink at Pickle Inspector as they spoke. “You guys have a good night, huh? I’ll be keeping an eye out for you the next time Hearts comes through.” 

“Thanks a lot, Nick.” 

They got up. Pickle Inspector snuck some bills onto the table and headed out into the street again. It was passed four now, the wind picking up and moving a dark bank of clouds over Low Town. Pickle Inspector stood looking up at them, deep slate blue against the pale grey sky. If there was any light left in the day it was overtaken by the clouds, the street turning an eerie, grey-blue as it fell into a premature dusk. His deadline and the cold spike in his chest chilled him through and through. A hand put its fingers in his back pocket and gave his ass a squeeze and Pickle Inspector started upright, twisting in the air. 

He caught the hand by its wrist and yanked it around, whirling to find Boxcars laughing as he was dragged in close with Pickle Inspector. 

“Wait, wait,” His voice was bright. He pulled his hand free and waved one of the dollars Pickle Inspector left on the table in the air. “I got one more for you.” 

“Ohhh--” Pickle Inspector felt embarrassment and rush of something else as he thought how warm and strong Boxcars’s hand felt. He snatched the dollar away, puffing himself up as he reached into his back pocket for the rest of his money. “Th-That was for Nick!”

“What, you think I don’t tip? At Jo Anne’s, no less?” Boxcars elbowed him and walked close to Pickle Inspector, leading them back through the parking lot. “What happened to me being so generous and kind, Pi?”

Pickle Inspector felt another rush of that something, staying close to Boxcars where he could feel his warmth. He glanced at Boxcars, struck by the feeling that he was once again seeing an unusual side of a familiar face. 

“W-Well I, I wanted to do my part. I am the g-good guy after all.”

“You’re doing plenty.” Boxcars assured him, bringing them to the driver’s side of the Gladiator.

“It r-really is going to p-pay off.” Pickle Inspector nodded, staying close even as he came to a thought that was sure to rip them apart. He started reeling in his tie. “I know we’ll find Slick. You were right to h-hire me.”

“Oh yeah?” Boxcars was pleased, smiling up at him. He reached for Pickle Inspector’s tie, taking it and tugging on him. It brought him an inch closer and Boxcars’s other hand touched the small of his back. “Y’know I was just thinking the same thing.” 

Pickle Inspector watched his warm, auburn eyes, let himself be held there just another moment. Then he stepped back, closing his hand around his tie and gently pulled it between Boxcars’s fingers.

“Y-Yes,” He said, a moment away from steam blowing out his ears. “Good innntuition.” 

Boxcars let him back away and opened the driver’s side door. 

“So where to now, Pi?” He watched Pickle Inspector huff and ball up his tie in his fist as he stepped around the nose of the Gladiator to the passenger’s side. 

“Nnnow,” Pickle Inspector opened his door and faced Boxcars over the roof of the truck. “Lots of b-boring work. Let’s st-start back at Florian’s.”


	8. Flatfoot Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickle Inspector and Boxcars learn some things and hatch a plan.  
> Wild is the Wind, by Nina Simone: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rajmMErH85U
> 
> As before, I'm plugging away at these final chapters so updates will be spaced out a little further.

They returned to Florian’s and found it closed, locked up, and lightless. That was no surprise, getting another crack at the bartender had been a long shot to begin with. More than likely he had flown the coop just as soon as they left hours before. 

That left them with a lot of driving, a lot of talking, and long hours of seemingly getting nowhere. 

They dropped into every bar, every pool hall, every pitch, every dive, every watering hole, speakeasy, eating place, hole in the wall, nook and cranny of Low Town. They spoke to bartenders and band leaders and shoe shiners, newsies and waitresses, men about town and socialites and card sharks and operators and all of them got the same story: They needed to find Pug Nose, they could work out a deal with the Crew if the Pug bothered to show up. 

By seven they had succeeded beyond expectation in getting footsore, dry mouth and nowhere. They finally landed at the Hotel Bacall, the oldest and smallest of the hotel-casinos on the waterfront. It occupied the last block of the harbor and the first block of the waterfront, separated from the glittering boardwalk by a long stretch of rocky beach. 

The hotel bar composed most of the ground floor, the casino opening below it, perpendicular to the bar and connected by a wide, shallow-stepped staircase built of granite and wrought iron. From the small balcony at the top of the stairs the bar’s patrons had a view of the action across the card tables, roulette wheels and the few shiny, new electric slot machines in the back. The place wore old fashioned decorations, the walls lined in silky, faded red sheets, pinned into uniform folds to resemble opera curtains. One large, yellowed crystal chandelier hung over the casino floor, just above the staircase so its glittering light fell over the casino and the small balcony at the top of the stairs. Hearts Boxcars sat at a table on the balcony, keeping his eyes on the swarm of bodies around the bar. 

The Saturday night crowd elbowed and jostled one another, everyone trying to get drunk enough to feel the rush of losing their money at the tables. They gave Pickle Inspector more than his share of dirty looks as he occupied one bartender in conversation. 

“They’re a local operator, sh-shoulder length hair and a pug nnnose. Sound fuh-familiar?”

“Sure, I know ‘em. What’s your business with the Pug?” The bartender moved her eyes from Pickle Inspector’s face, over the crowd around him and beyond to Boxcars. “You’re here with the Crew, aren’t you? Last I heard they weren’t a friend of the Pug.”

“W-We’re reaching out,” Pickle Inspector nodded, too tired from hours of talking in circles to get very excited about this lead. “If you’ll get a mmmessage to the Pug, we’re here to talk. They’ve g-got the next hour to cut a deal, after that th-they’re in the wind.”

The bartender pursed her lips and nodded without emotion. 

“Okey, simple enough. You want to tell me what this deal is?”

“Strictly c-confidential, sorry.” 

“And any assurances from the big guy?” She nodded at Boxcars. “I’m not about to call the Pug just so they can get their face smashed in.” 

“Nnno, there’ll be no face s-smashing. Not if they’ll come and t-talk to us.” Pickle Inspector gave her an open, honest look. The bartender took him in carefully as he added. “We w-wouldn’t offer them th-this chance if it wasn’t w-worth their while.” 

“Okey, I’ll send the message along.” She put out her hand on the bartop, Pickle Inspector put a few bills in her fingers to make it worth _her_ while and they parted. 

He came back to the table overlooking the casino, wading through the crowd of needy, soberish gamblers. One long hand closed over the back of his chair and he sank into it, his long legs stretching out with a few creaks. Pickle Inspector rubbed his tired eyes. 

“Puh-Progress at last.” He sighed, blinking and tugging on his cheek. 

“You got a line on ‘em?” Boxcars leaned a big arm on the glass topped table, angling closer to hear him over the bustle of the bar and the chatter of the casino. His face had grown stony and tired, his color deepening and a seam of muscle in his jaw peeking out from hours of grinding his molars. He sounded stern and bored with the good news. “Finally, somebody in Low Town is useful.”

“Y-You’re throwing Nick and Jo Anne r-right under that bus.” Pickle Inspector said, loading out handfuls upon handfuls of receipts from his overburdened pockets. He had scanned through most of the receipts from Florian’s but several had been squashed or stepped on or slept on or otherwise creased and crumpled that he had collected all the slips he couldn’t be sure of and stuffed them into his pockets. 

“Nick and Jo Anne ain’t in Low Town.” Boxcars watched the tangle of papers overwhelm their table. “They’re on Jo Anne’s block, that’s totally different.”

“Of course, nnno disrespect to Ms. Jo Anne.” Pickle Inspector spoke softly, facing a fresh handful of receipts. 

“Gimme some of those.” Boxcars hooked a slice of the pile in his arm and drew it across the table. “You’re never gonna get through all of them by yourself.”

“Thank you,” Pickle Inspector sighed, shaking his head at the task before them. 

“So what’s this bartender have to say for herself?” Boxcars started reading the receipts with one eye closed, moving through them slower than Pickle Inspector, who needed only to pass a handful in front of his wide eyes before he rejected them. Pickle Inspector looked up from his reading, finding the empty place at the bar where she should have been and then leaning around Boxcars to glance into the front lobby of the hotel. Sure enough, the bartender was at the front desk placing a call. He nodded to her and Boxcars looked over his shoulder. 

“S-She’s telling the Pug we want to mmmake a deal. Th-they’ve got an hour to show, then they’re on th-their own.”

“You plan on finding the Golden Ticket in another hour?” Boxcars said to more useless receipts. 

“W-With two people,” Pickle Inspector sighed as he scanned. “We’ll find it.” 

Boxcars poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“So. About this deal.” He leafed his receipts into one of the rejection piles. “Using it as bait for the Pug is one thing, but I don’t know how generous the boys are gonna feel once we hook them.”

“You’re nnnot going to kill them.” With everything else in the air and just over four hours until he either kept Boxcars distracted and prayed or was forced to take him back to Franklin Street, Pickle Inspector felt a rawness that made him firm. If nothing else, he wouldn’t get Pug Nose killed today. “That’s mmmore than they could guess right now.”

“Sure, sure.” Boxcars pushed his jaw to one side, trying to think of a good enough excuse to keep Pug Nose out of Droog’s garage. He kept parsing through receipts to give himself something to do. “But what makes you think they’re worth it? Guy who’ll kidnap a mob boss, how good can they be?”

“It’s nnnot about that. I told you b-before.” Pickle Inspector looked up and searched Boxcars’s face for something that he didn’t know how to show. “They’re a person, and y-you and I shook h-hands on it. No killing.” 

“You really believe in a handshake, huh Inspector?”

“I do.” Pickle Inspector daintily discarded some receipts and plucked up several more. “And I knnnow you do too. You have your own c-code of honor because you’re, ah, what was it?” 

He thought for a moment then moved his head down towards his shoulders and pushed his voice all the way into his stomach. His own breathy, nasal voice still colored his impression of Hearts’s baritone. 

“‘A family type. Word in b-bond.’”

“Oh, you’re real funny when you’re tired.” Boxcars squinted at him and smiled. 

“You c-can deny it, Boxcars. But you know I’mmm right.” Pickle Inspector looked up, those blue eyes knowing him. A wave washed over Hearts and he paused with receipts in hand, letting out a breath. 

“Well, maybe,” He spoke and collected himself slowly. “When you put it like that it, uh, sounds better. All that honor stuff makes it sound kind of noble.”

Pickle Inspector’s face softened into a smile.

“It is,” he said. “No nnneed to be shy about it.”

“I don’t figure I’m the shy one here,” Hearts turned a crooked smile up from his reading. “I just don’t get to hear it put like that too often. I bet you’d be singing a different tune if the tables was turned.”

“T-Turned how?” Pickle Inspector barely repressed a shiver in his voice. 

“If I was going on about how you’re a lot tougher than you look. That you got a lot more sand than any other cutesy blondes I know.” Hearts was rewarded by Pickle Inspector’s face reddening.

“Y-You’re just,” The detective stared at the mess of papers in front of him, combing a restless hand through his hair. “Saying that… H-Have you heard anything from Deuce?” 

Boxcars told Clubs to keep an eye out for Pug Nose when their search became. Now he just shook his head. The only news from the rest of the Crew was that Clubs had been up and down the west side of Low Town and found nothing, and that Slick and Droog’s basement was now immaculately clean and Droog had moved onto their attic. 

“Nothing yet. He’s keeping an eye out but so far there’s no sign of the Pug or Slick.”

“And he, he doesn’t know that we’re…” Pickle Inspector gestured vaguely with a hand and a movement of his slumped shoulders to their whole situation. 

“Working the case? No. I figure I’ll tell him when I got something good to report.” Or he would simply never tell Clubs. Boxcars didn’t relish lying to his best buddy but he didn’t know how he would begin to explain today. He rubbed his neck, squinting at one of the slips in his hand. “Hey, Inspector, maybe you want to take a look at this.”

“Is it--” Pickle Inspector looked up, expecting their Golden Ticket, and found instead the check for five thousand dollars Boxcars had made out to him that morning. “Oh god--”

He took it back as Boxcars snickered seeing him clutch the check in both hands and stare at it.

“I--I swear I p-put this in my desk,” He said, his eyes wide.

“Yeah, right before you tried to hand it back to me.” Boxcars shook his head. “How many other checks have you lost in that coat?” 

Pickle Inspector blew out a long raspberry and stuffed the check into his inside breast pocket. There, at least, it was stowed with slightly more important crap than anywhere else in his coat. 

“It’s nnnot usually a problem.” He said. “Checks all st-stay in my desk.” 

“And you wanted me to give you my gun.” Boxcars tsk’d. “I’d never see it again.” 

Pickle Inspector gave a soft huff, petting the front of his coat to feel the outline of the check.

“The g-guns are all mmmuch safer in the truck, I think we can a-agree on that.”

“Sure, sure,” Boxcars started rifling through more receipts. “As for all these, I don’t know. What makes you think these things are worth going through? We already know the Pug is the one who took him out last night.”

“Mmm, no not quite.” Pickle Inspector shook his head. “There w-was the other man.”

“Not-Doc Scratch.” Boxcars named him. 

“Exactly. He’s our t-tie to the rest of the kidnappers and, well, what k-kind of kidnapper doesn’t p-pay for their mark’s drinks?” 

“Y’know you got a funny way of thinking about crooks, Inspector.” Boxcars tilted his head. 

“W-Well, I h-happen to know one and, uh.” Pickle Inspector felt his smooth start slipping away from him. He tried to slide into a smooth finish. “He’s shown me a d-different side than most see.” 

“Sounds like he’s one hell of a guy.”

“He is.” Pickle Inspector smiled softly, then lowered his head and went back to scanning receipts. “But, it f-follows, doesn’t it? The kidnapper would pay for Slick.”

“It follows, sure.” Boxcars nodded and read with one eye. “You can even write it off with the O.C.U., that’s half the appeal of a kidnapping. All the ransoming costs’ll come back in your tax refund if you write ‘em off.” 

“I swear,” Pickle Inspector looked thoughtful. “I’ll nnnever understand how the Or-Organized Criminals’ Union works.”

“It’s a bureaucracy, who knows?” 

Pickle Inspector considered it a little longer.

“And the O.C.U…. They don’t have mmmediators, do they?” 

“Mediators? What for?”

“I just,” Pickle Inspector discarded more receipts. “Wonder.” 

“Listen, Inspector, you already got the Pug off easy. No killing means no killing. You can stop running defence for them.” 

“But, say, i-if they g-gave Slick back?” 

“And just said they was real sorry for kidnapping him?” Boxcars gave him a stony look.

“You joke b-but,” Pickle Inspector watched him seriously. “But isn’t that what you want? S-Slick back nnnice and safe?”

“And you think the Pug and their buddies are just gonna hand him over, no bones about it?”

Pickle Inspector shrugged one of his dopey shrugs. 

“Crazier things have h-happened.”

“I like the optimism, Mr. Oneness, but this ain’t the universe where Pug Nose just decides to start doing right.” 

“No,” Pickle Inspector kept looking for an answer in the papers covering the table. “I-I don’t suppose it is.”

The lights over the casino where it met the base of the staircase dimmed. A man climbed onto the small stage there, touched by pale white lights that came alive along the curved edge of the stage. He razzed a few guests and then started introducing the first act of the evening.

“You know how sharpers are, Pi.” Boxcars tried to assure the detective. “For most guys doing right is too much trouble. It’d be nice if the Pug came around to your way of doing things, but even that don’t change what they’ve already done.” 

He spoke sternly but gently, aware that this topic had been knotting Pickle Inspector’s brain into a mess of anxieties all day. Boxcars guessed he kept coming back to it because Pickle Inspector hadn’t come so close to killing someone before. Even with their handshake and Boxcars’s repeated assurance Pickle Inspector acted like he was personally responsible for Pug Nose’s safety. It was sweet even though it made Pickle Inspector paranoid, sweaty and loopy.

Across the table Pickle Inspector sighed, shaking his head. This had gone on long enough. He looked up, the low light spotting him and Boxcars in the glints and reflections and refractions from the chandelier. The pieces of light missed Boxcars’s eyes and gleamed off his own. 

The truth welled up from the pit in his stomach, climbed to his throat and twisted on the back of his tongue. He had his Team to think of. He had himself to think of. He had lied to Boxcars, had taken his money and wasted his time, and now he was supposed to explain that it was all a big misunderstanding? That the time they had spent together had only mattered because it taught Pickle Inspector how to placate him?

His jaw trembled as he started to speak.

“B-Boxcars?”

The mobster looked back at him, concern growing on his face seeing the pained expression the detective wore. 

“What is it, Pi?”

He had to tell him and there was no way he could. Pickle Inspector was overwhelmed by his auburn gaze and he looked away to his receipts. 

He owed it to Boxcars to try. 

“I--I nnneed to tell you--” His hands spread over the mess of papers, flitting through them and uncovering one at the bottom of the pile. Pickle Inspector’s breathing was already short and he sucked in a gasp, gagging on it as he picked up the receipt. It read: 

**Florian’s Bar**

9/17 11:47 PM BAR07

 **QTY** **DESC** **AMT**

3 Beefeater Gin $15.00

2 Beefeater Gin $10.00

2 Beefeater Gin $10.00

**SALE** **$35.00**

TAX $3.15

BALANCE $38.15

**TOTAL:** **_________**

I agree to pay the above amount 

according to the card issuer agreement

**X:_________________________**

Signed: **JACK PALLINO**

“J-Jack Pallino--” Pickle Inspector stood up, holding the receipt up to his wide eyes. 

He put the scene together in his head, the three of them at a table in the back of Florian’s. Pug Nose would smooth Slick over and feed him gin while round, white, little Jack Pallino watched and waited to spirit him away, into Ace Dick’s trunk. 

“Pi? You got it?” Boxcars moved to his side of the table, leaning over his shoulder to read the receipt. He clapped a big hand on his back, letting out a hoarse laugh that covered the squawk he knocked out of Pickle Inspector. “Pallino, hell--The Bocce Boys.”

“Of course,” Pickle Inspector pushed the hand with the receipt through his hair. “It’s so s-simple I sh-should’ve guessed.”

He leaned back against Boxcars’s arm, huffing out a breath. 

“God damn, it was right under our noses this whole time,” Boxcars curled his arm around Pickle Inspector’s narrow waist, shaking his head and taking the receipt to admire it some more. “So the Pug is working for the Bocces this whole time.”

“S-Slick’s secret deal, it, it mmmust’ve been a united front w-with the Bocces.” Pickle Inspector guessed, leaning along Boxcars’s side with his head hovering by his shoulder. 

“Yeah, he’d think he’d have two mobs to go up against the Felt.” Boxcars nodded, holding him. 

“A-And, the Crew would a-agree to a united front?” Pickle Inspector checked. 

“No, god no. But if Slick could’ve worked it out, I don’t know. We might not like it but if it meant taking out the Felt? That’d be worth some cooperation.”

“A-And instead they planned to nnnab Slick and dest-stablize the Crew.”

“Well,” Boxcars puffed up at his wording. “I don’t know if we’re unstable right now.”

“I-It’s still only the three of you,” Pickle Inspector said more delicately. “That mmmakes it easier to move a-against you.”

Boxcars chewed on that and nodded. 

“So why didn’t they?” He wondered, pushing his jaw to one side. 

Pickle Inspector had the answer to that and he tried to picture himself saying. He would ruin their victory over the receipts but maybe that was the best way to get it out, letting it land on a cushion of good feelings. Or maybe he would be betraying Boxcars while he was perfectly situated to throw Pickle Inspector off a balcony. Pickle Inspector wasn’t sure if he would blame Hearts for it.

There was a hush in the casino as a small dark woman in a glimmering black dress took the stage. Her dark skin showed shades of purple and umber in the dim light, shards of yellow from the chandelier passed over the black and blue floral headwrap she wore. She spoke a low ‘hello’ into the mic and a piano chimed cooly and sadly behind her, a bass strummed in a low drone. The singer’s voice was deep and rich, and held a sadness that chilled the faces of the gamblers who watched her. Pickle Inspector shivered and Hearts squeezed him, both of them watching her. 

_Love me, love me, say you do._

_Let me fly away with you,_

_For my love is like the wind._

_And wild is the wind._

The rush of their victory dissipated as the song lilted through the air. They were aware of being tucked together and they knew they couldn’t be. Neither moved and the singer continued, her deep voice begging:

_Give me more than one caress._

_Satisfy this hungriness._

_Let the wind blow through your heart,_

_For wild is the wind._

Pickle Inspector wanted nothing more than to rest his head on Hearts’s shoulder and to feel the strength there. But, of course, that was impossible. He stood up straighter, putting an inch of cold air between them. Hearts looked back at him. The piano started cascading behind the singer as she opened her arms and slowly wrapped them around herself. 

_You touch me,_

_I hear the sound of mandolins._

_You kiss me,_

_With you kiss my life begins._

_You’re spring to me,_

_All things to me._

_You’re life itself…_

The piano started a twinkling, lilting melody and they separated, Boxcars coming around to his side of the table and clearing his throat into his fist.

“You were gonna tell me something, Inspector?” He tried to regain the thread of their conversation. “Before you found that receipt.” 

“Do you w-want a drink?” Pickle Inspector asked, feeling hollow.

“I’m driving, remember?”

“One drink won’t, won’t do much. We, we h-have to wait f-for the Pug after all.”

Boxcars nodded slowly, not smiling though his face softened. 

“Yeah, alright. Whiskey sour.”

“Great,” Pickle Inspector let out a shaky breath and scurried away.

He elbowed up to the bar, put in their order and stood with both hands on the bartop, hanging on while the crowd jostled and shifted around him. His shadow cast his bleary reflection on the polished surface of the bar and Pickle Inspector had to turn away. The miserable look on his own face only reminded him of his cowardice. The truth would never have been easy to spit out but he had to tell Boxcars, easy or not. Maybe the whiskey would loosen his tongue, maybe it would even cushion his fall from the balcony.

The lights stayed low and the music continued and Pickle Inspector worked hard not to listen to it. Instead he scanned the people around him at the bar, then over them out towards the front lobby of the hotel. Revelers continued to come in and out, buzzing from the halls coming off the lobby, floating in the hotel doors, drifting out of the casino to accompany one another back to their rooms. They all seemed so happy and carefree. None of them cared who had spent the night in Ace Dick’s car, or what the fate of a Low Town sharper would be, or if Pickle Inspector would catch a glimpse of remorse on Boxcars’s face before the bay separated them forever. 

It was Saturday night, time to cut loose!

Pickle Inspector hummed, leaning more heavily on the bar. His eyes kept moving over the crowds of guests and then he locked eyes across the lobby with Nervous Broad. 

He did a double take, glimpsing and then staring at her. She stared right back, holding his gaze and straightening up, her hands balling at her collarbones. Pickle Inspector boggled, thinking she must be a hallucination built from his guilt and disquiet, but people moved around her as if she were real. She moved, pointing at his table, then waving for him to come over to her. Her eyes beamed concern and compassion at him. 

Pickle Inspector looked at his table and found a new person there: 

They were about Sleuth’s height, in a dark grey tweed suit with shoulder length hair. They stood with their back to Pickle Inspector and Boxcars snarling something at them, his shoulders knotted and his face dark.

A whistle cut passed his ear and Pickle Inspector whirled from all that to the bartender. 

“This ain’t a charity, stretch.” She said, putting her hand out over the two whiskey sours sweating by Pickle Inspector’s elbow. He swallowed dryly and paid her, picked up the drinks and cast a look back at Broad. His teammate implored him to come to her with another look and he shrugged helplessly and gave a wide eyed, befuddled frown in return. He moved back to the table, hoping Broad would guess he couldn’t just sneak past it to come to her.

“Oh, for me?” The Pug’s nose whistled as they reached over and took one whiskey sour from Pickle Inspector. Their black eyes watched him coldly as they took a gulp then hummed. “You shouldn’t have.”

They kept their distance from the edge of the table, out of Boxcars’s reach, and if Pickle Inspector didn’t know better he would say that they looked at himself with uncommon interest. 

“Yes, s-sure,” Pickle Inspector pulled up a chair beside Boxcars and set the remaining drink in front of him. Boxcars didn’t move his practiced glare from their guest. “We’re h-happy to have you.”

“Yeah, you both seem real happy.” Pug Nose’s eyes slid over Boxcars’s face. “Now suppose you tell me what’s so important you been spreading my name all over Low Town? I don’t know you two from a hole in the ground.”

“You don’t remember me, Pug?” Boxcars put on his shark’s smile and Pickle Inspector was glad to see Pug Nose pale a little. “After you seen me wallop five guys right in front of you?”

“I know lots of guys who can do that.” They managed, with effort, to stay glib. “What, you called me up just to toss me down those stairs? Is that your big, secret deal?”

“You knnnow plenty about secret deals, don’t you?” Pickle Inspector asked warmly, his voice soft. Pug Nose gave him a poisonous look. “That’s how you mmmanaged to sucker Spades Slick l-last night. Right before you k-kidnapped him.” 

“Oh?” Pug Nose stayed still, looking from Pickle Inspector’s face to Boxcars’s, then back. They didn’t show any shock, any agitation, but Pickle Inspector saw a cold hatred in their black eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Cut the act, Pug.” Boxcars growled. “You got one way out of this, you give up the Bocces and you get out of town while you’re still breathing.” 

Pug Nose looked at Pickle Inspector and seemed to be waiting for him to say something. 

“No,” They said at last, taking another sip of their drink. “I don’t think that’s my only way out.”

Pickle Inspector frowned, his brow knotting.

“We’re offering you the best deal you’re gonna get, Pug.” Boxcars spoke evenly, keeping violence at the edge of his voice. “Jack Pallino won’t care what happens to you, you’re fresh meat. You don’t even have your colors yet, do you?”

Here he lifted a hand and tapped Pickle Inspector’s chest with it.

“Look at that, they didn’t even get made. The Bocces would’ve put them in red and green by now if they had.”

“There’s been a snag,” Pug Nose snapped, their eyes bright. “But I’m fixing it. Why do you think the Crew’s still breathing air? The Bocce Boys got muscle enough to take you out, we’re just tying up a loose end.”

“What loose end?” Boxcars did not like this answer and knew he was closing in on something.

Pug Nose looked directly at Pickle Inspector, their eyes knowing and expectant. The dreadful pit opened in Pickle Inspector’s stomach and he knew in a rush that Pug Nose had no reason to keep his secret, no matter how little of it they knew. They opened their mouth to speak. 

Pickle Inspector reached in front of Boxcars and grabbed the untouched whiskey sour, brought it to his lips and chugged it down. The other two watched him, both looking more and more astonished as he chugged the whole drink in one go. Pickle Inspector squinted through it until there was only ice left, chilling the tip of his bony nose, then he put the glass back down with a sour sigh and leered at the two of them. 

“I think,” He said with his throat simultaneously tangy and dry and warm and wet. “A third party’s mmmediation could h-help here.” 

The detective stepped back from the table and put out a hand for Pug Nose to join him. 

“Pug wh-why don’t you tell mmme what’s going on in c-confidence. Then we c-can work something out a-all together.”

Pug Nose didn’t seem to like Pickle Inspector any more but they smiled a cool smile and nodded, stepping over to him. Boxcars’s face darkened and he turned to Pickle Inspector, his brow knotted. 

“Pi, what the hell are you doing?”

“We’ll,--” Pickle Inspector swelled with a sour burp and covered most of it with his hand. “We’ll be b-back in a moment, I promise. A l-little one onnn one, they’ll t-talk to me easier than the Crew.”

“We shouldn’t split up, not right when we got them on the ropes.” Boxcars spoke softly, a big hand wrapping around Pickle Inspector’s arm. 

“I knnnow I just-- I j-just need you to trust mmme. Please Boxcars.” He put his hand over Boxcars’s, his eyes pleading. “It’s, it’s time for a light touch.”

Boxcars’s expression stayed stony, his grip on Pickle Inspector tightened for a moment, and then he let go. Pickle Inspector sighed out something that might’ve been ‘thank you,’ and moved away with Pug Nose. Boxcars stilled into a dark mountain and watched them disappear into the Saturday night crowd. 

“Boy,” Pug Nose started coldy and casually as they came into the lobby. “You got the big guy wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?”

“Th-That’s the only thing k-keeping you alive right nnnow.” Pickle Inspector said sweatily. He took hold of Pug Nose’s arm as they walked, sure they would make a break for the hotel doors as soon as they got the chance. “You should b-be thanking me.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Pug Nose shook their head. “Now if you told me where your buddies were keeping Slick, then maybe I’d thank you.”

Pickle Inspector pulled them into a quiet hallway off the main lobby. 

“Are you cr-crazy?” He said in a hiss. “Why onnn Earth would they h-have him?”

“C’mon, Pickle Inspector. I know Ace Dick drove off with him this morning, and then the little bastard disappeared along with that other one, Problem Sleuth.” Pug Nose shook their head, finding the whole thing distasteful. “The frail at your office didn’t know where they’d gone but I figure you’d know better.”

Pickle Inspector’s irritation twisted his brow and pinched the skin under his eyes. He shook his head, his eyes dark. 

“Why w-would I be looking for Slick if I knew where he was?” He spoke deliberately, his slumped shoulders tightening. 

“To keep the Crew entertained, right? You keep them chasing their tails while your buddies lay low, give them time to come up with a plan. Listen, I get it. I’ve been a bind before myself.” Pug Nose smiled, their face almost handsome but lacking any kindness. “But this is serious here. Your best option is to hand Slick over to us, we finish him off and then maybe you boys walk.”

“No deal.” Pickle Inspector said simply.

“You think your boyfriend over there is gonna just let you off the hook once he finds out?” Pug Nose smiled at him cruelly. “That’s why you’re working on him, right? Soften the big guy up so he’ll take pity on you.” 

“It’s nnnot like that.” Pickle Inspector couldn’t hold their eyes now. 

“Hey don’t be bashful, you did a hell of a job on him. You got him to walk around without wearing a gun, hell, I never even heard of Hearts Boxcars going that soft for anybody.” Pug Nose needled. “But we both know it’s too thin to get you and your Team clear of all the trouble you’re in.”

“Y-You’re the one in trouble, Pug.” Pickle Inspector insisted, tightening his grip on their arm. “The B-Bocce Boys won’t have you nnnow and the Crew w-wants you dead.”

“I guess we got that in common.” The Pug smiled another hateful smile. “You’re really going to take your chances with that goon instead? If you’d give up Slick the Crew would never need to know you were involved. You’d be doing the Bocce Boys a real favor. You’d be doing me a favor, too.” 

“Yes,” Pickle Inspector said bleakly. “And I-I’m sure you’d p-pay it forward. Nnno deal, Pug. You’re nnnot getting anything fruh-from me.”

“Aww, boy,” Pug Nose sighed harshly and shook their head. They took out their Redhawk .45, yanked Pickle Inspector close and shoved the nose of the gun in between his ribs. Their grip was tight and strong for someone their size, fueled by their own viciousness. Pickle Inspector let out a squeak then stayed quiet. “So we’ll do this the other way, I guess. You’ll take me to Slick yourself.”

The gun nuzzled into him painfully, tucked between them while Pug Nose pulled Pickle Inspector in close with their other hand. Pickle Inspector winced, the barrel jabbing through his oversized coat to dig into his chest as Pug Nose started moving them back toward the lobby. 

“Th-That’s p-pointless,” Pickle Inspector spoke quietly, his voice a harsh whisper as he willed it out. “I told you, I d-don’t knnnow where he is.”

“Yeah? Well maybe me and my friends can help you figure it out. You’re a pretty smart guy, after all. Should only take a couple rounds with the sap to knock your head right.” They paused to let out a toothy, mirthless laugh. “Well, I guess you’re only half smart, so maybe three or four rounds, huh?” 

Pickle Inspector stepped awkwardly alongside them, tripping to match their much shorter gate, but was dragged along nonetheless. His brain was reeling trying to find a way out, but the gun was pointed into his lung and had an angle on his heart. If he tried to grab it he’d get shot, and if he twisted away he might get someone in the lobby shot. 

People crowded them as they moved along, fancy glittering dresses, pressed white collars, feathered hats and beaded gowns. A cold wind from the hotel doors blew more people in from the darkness in the street. Pickle Inspector looked back to the bar, craning his neck to find Hearts and only seeing the Saturday night crowd. Pug Nose yanked on his arm and shoved him towards the hotel doors. They made Pickle Inspector open them and then pulled him out into the darkness. 

The night had turned cold and damp, the storm over Low Town roiling and building in the black sky. A chattering couple passed them on the right, a laughing group of drunks closed in and passed on the left, a lone walker hunched against the cold after them, and more figures beyond that. Pug Nose moved them down the sidewalk, through the parade of civilians, and Pickle Inspector tried to keep his breathing even. His hands were cold and shaking. The next block was empty. He would try there. 

Pug Nose spoke in a laugh by his shoulder.

“When I saw Boxcars wasn’t wearing his gun I didn’t believe it. Is that your thing? You don’t carry a gun?”

“Nnnot quite.” Pickle Inspector said quietly, bitterly. More people, half drunk and alive with laughter, passed them. A grey mist was building from the street, touched with the deep black and blue of the storm overhead. Pickle Inspector kept his eyes trained on the next block. It was a lonely strip of warehouses at the edge of the harbor without so much as a street light on its corner. He could just see a grey sedan in the middle of the block. Pug Nose kept them moving. “I g-got him to put it away b-because I didn’t want anyone to g-get shot.”

“Yeah, that’s half smart if I ever heard it.” Pug Nose snickered again. “Is this your first time in Midnight City, Inspector?” 

“You’re so funny.” Pickle Inspector stared straight ahead, turtling into his coat’s collar. They passed a Beetle at the end of the block and started across the street into the strip of warehouses. 

“Well I sure appreciate the thought. You saved me an awful lot of trouble.” Pug Nose sneered and reminded him with a jab that their gun was between his ribs.

“Wh-What do you think B-Boxcars will do when he f-finds out you tried this?” Pickle Inspector dragged his feet now, using his awkward, gangly weight to steer Pug Nose towards the brick side of the nearest warehouse. “He o-only offered you a w-way out because I mmmade him.”

“Tried?” Pug Nose yanked on him and righted Pickle Inspector before he could get the leverage he needed to shove them apart. “You talk a big game for a weakling, y’know that?”

“It’s p-part of my job,” Pickle Inspector kept lagging beside Pug Nose, refusing to make this easy for them. He almost saw the glint of the gun. “You didn’t answer mmmy question. You r-really w-want to find out what Boxcars would do a-after you kidnapped two of his friends?”

“I don’t worry about Boxcars.” Pug Nose snarled up at him, stopping to make Pickle Inspector stand up straight. “I know eight guys just like him, they’ll take care of him easy.”

“Bold talk.” Pickle Inspector scoffed. 

“Before they kill him how’s about I tell him your little secret?” Cruelty colored their voice again. “He’ll die knowing you lied to him all along, that you were just conning him.”

“I t-told you, it’s not like that!” Pickle Inspector spoke harshly, tangling a hand between them and finding the metal of the gun as Pug Nose’s hand became a hooked claw around it. He dragged himself away, the gun twisting in the tight space between them, its nose waving in the air as both of them pulled on it. Pug Nose twisted and spat at him, grabbing with their free hand to pull Pickle Inspector back into place. 

“Give it up-- lover boy--” Pug Nose yanked hard on the gun and pulled Pickle Inspector close again, his bony hand fighting to hang onto the weapon. They swung out with their other arm, a fist hammering in under his ribs. He choked on a breath and his footing slipped but he just kept his grip on the gun. “You know how this ends!”

Their eyes glowed with hate in the darkness and they pulled on the gun one last time. Pickle Inspector’s grip broke as it was twisted away from him and he sucked in a harsh, painful breath. The gun trained on him and a shape moved behind Pug Nose.

“It ends nnnow!” The back half of a flamethrower appeared over their head and swung down hard. It connected with a meaty crack and Nervous Broad dropped her shoulder and followed through. Pug Nose let out a pained groan and crumpled to the ground, their gun slipping from their fist to the pavement.

Pickle Inspector spun to face his friend.

“Oh, B-Broad, thank you!”

He fell into her arms, Pug Nose landing loosely on the sidewalk between them. Broad’s long arm wrapped around him and they hugged. 

“Pi, thank goodness!” She said against his neck, squeezing him so tight. “I-I was so worried!”

She pulled back, looking him over with her flamethrower clutched against her side. 

“You’re alright? Come on, w-we need to get out of here!”

She took his arm and pulled on him and Pickle Inspector leaned away from her, shaking his head.

“Nnno I, I can’t just leave, Broad.”

“Oh yes you can,” Broad’s eyes were huge and serious, her face pale. 

“No I—I can’t leave B-Boxcars like this.”

“What are you t-talking about? You’re being silly, Pi.”

She pulled on him and Pickle Inspector yanked his arm away. He shook his head again and watched pain and confusion tangle on Nervous Broad’s face. 

“Broad we b-both know how this will end.” He said miserably. “I nnneed to be the one to tell him. It’s, it’s the right thing to do.”

“Who cares?” Broad was in disbelief. “It d-doesn’t matter to him. H-He’s a mobster, Pi, he doesn’t c-care about any of that.”

“No. You don’t knnnow him,” Pickle Inspector backed away when she reached for him again. Broad wobbled, almost tripping over the unconscious Pug Nose. “I can, I can talk to him, h-he listens to me. And if there’s a-any way out of this I think, I think I’m the b-best chance we’ve got.”

“What on Earth are you s-saying?” Broad’s eyes were luminous in the dark and she looked at him like she had never seen Pickle Inspector before in her life. “That’s nnnonsense, Pi. You think you knnnow him? Don’t be a fool!”

“I--I’m not! If-If you won’t believe me, f-fine.” Pickle Inspector took another step back, his face hot. He knew she was only hurt and scared and trying to protect him. It didn’t change what she had said. 

“He’ll k-kill you when he finds out.” Broad blinked away tears even as her eyes hardened. “Don’t do this, Pi. You, you knnnow it won’t work.”

“No it-it _could_ work.” He couldn’t prove that to her, of course. He didn’t know if he could prove it to himself. Pickle Inspector watched his friend’s teary eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Broad. I h-have to do this, I have to try.” 

Broad let out a choked sob, raindrops sparkling down as the storm finally broke. She straightened up and gulped, turning away. Her body was tense and still and he could hear her sniffling as the rain started speckling them. 

Pickle Inspector gave her some privacy, stooping down and attending to Pug Nose. He took their gun and stowed it in one of his pockets, patted them down for any others and then started hauling them up from the pavement by their armpits. Pug Nose wasn’t a big person but they were dead weight, making Pickle Inspector hunch and heave to try and angle their body upwards. 

A long, pale hand reached down and took Pug Nose’s arm, helping to lift them and lean their weight against Pickle Inspector. He looked up gratefully to see Nervous Broad’s face. 

“I’m nnnot leaving you with him.” She said resolutely. “I don’t care what h-happens, I won’t let you f-face this alone.” 

Pickle Inspector wondered how on Earth they would manage that. Loath to put Broad in danger, he willed himself to think of something to keep her as far from this mess as he could. It was a nice thought, and Pickle Inspector knew that that was all it could ever be. The only betrayal deeper than what he had already put her through would be to turn her away now. 

“Broad,” Pickle Inspector sighed and nodded, his eyes shining sadly in the grey rain. “Thank you so mmmuch.”

They propped Pug Nose up against the nearest warehouse and listened while they stirred and groaned. The Pug came around drearily, reaching for the brutish knot growing on the back of their head.

“The B-Bocce Boys kidnapped S-Slick,” Pickle Inspector explained as they came to. “This one w-works for them, they s-set Slick up last nnnight.” 

“What a good Sammmaritan.” Broad watched Pug Nose with cold, vicious eyes. She leveled the nose of her flamethrower at them and they pawed their pockets for their gun. Finding it gone, they simply watched the nose of the flamethrower and put their hands up. 

“If we h-hand the Bocces to them,” Pickle Inspector spoke softly, feeling the weight of what he was supposing. “The C-Crew could overlook o-our part in this.” 

Broad moved her eyes from Pug Nose to her friend, not buying it for a second. Pug Nose watched him as well, a cold, sardonic sneer curling their lips. 

“You sure about that?” They asked.

“Quiet you.” Broad’s voice was soft and harsh. 

“You two are going to take down the Bocce Boys?” Pug Nose kept sneering. “That I’d like to see, you’ll be snapped in half, the both of you.” 

“What did I j-just say?” Broad touched the trigger and let a hiss of propane out of the flamethrower. Pug Nose didn’t like that one bit, shivering and screwing their face up against the smell. 

“W-We couldn’t take all nnnine of them,” Pickle Inspector admitted, glancing back at the lights of the Hotel Bacall. Broad looked at him and saw an idea forming in his head, one she didn’t like even before she heard it. “But mmmaybe… Maybe if we h-had a united front...” 

Nervous Broad and Pug Nose turned the same look of discomfort and disbelief to him. 

* * *

“Boxcars?” Pickle Inspector touched his shoulder with a cold, wet hand. He was dabbled with rain, the storm outside steadily worsening. 

Boxcars turned in a rapid motion, his face still dark and his shoulder a hard coil of muscle under Pickle Inspector’s hand. 

“Where’s the Pug?” He asked, his heavy brow knotting. “How’d you get all wet?”

“C-Come with me.” Pickle Inspector took his arm. “I’ll eh-explain.” 

There was so much to say that Pickle Inspector started with what was immediately important. They left the bar and came through the lobby as he spoke. 

“Mmmy colleague tailed us from the o-office.” He saw anger bloom on Boxcars’s face and preempted it, putting one hand up and squeezing his arm with the other. “I--I didn’t know she was, or e-else I would’ve stopped her. B-But she’s here nnnow. The Pug tr-tried to stick me up and sh-she stopped them.” 

“They tried to stick you up?” Boxcars put on his dark mask and Pickle Inspector was surprised to find he could see through it. Boxcars was trying to hide the fact that Pug Nose’s attempted kidnapping scared him more than it enraged him. Pickle Inspector squeezed his arm again. 

“That snnnag of theirs, it’s that--” He let out a short breath. “The B-Bocce Boys lost Slick last night. P-Pug Nose wanted me to find Slick, to d-deliver him to the B-Bocces so they would g-get made.” 

He spoke softly, leading Boxcars to the hotel doors. As he finished he reached for the door only to have Boxcars stop short. He didn’t let go of the other man’s arm, but as soon as Boxcars stopped following Pickle Inspector was incapable of moving him. Everything Pickle Inspector told him swirled in Boxcars’s head and he scowled, his black eyebrows looming shadows over his small eyes. 

“They lost Slick.” He said, his voice dark and unsteady. Pickle Inspector watched him with a gleam of helplessness in his eyes and hung onto Boxcars. 

“Th-That’s a good thing. I-If they don’t have himmm they c-can’t kill him, Boxcars.” 

“I know that.” Boxcars snapped at him, giving Pickle Inspector a quick glare. He touched Pickle Inspector’s hand where it held his arm, slowly taking hold of it. He spoke seriously but without vitriol, his eyes slowly finding Pickle Inspector’s. “Just-- Gimme a minute with all that. Slick’s lost, the Pug stuck you up, your girl followed us... I told you if she makes trouble for herself she’s got to pay for it.” 

“I-If anything she’s s-saved us a lot of trouble.” Pickle Inspector held his gaze, though his brow crinkled with the effort. He swallowed and shivered in Hearts’s grip. “L-Listen, you came to mmme in the first place, l-let me take responsibility for mmmy friends. She didn’t follow us to spite you, she did it because she w-worried for me.” 

Hearts’s eyes moved over Pickle Inspector’s face in the darkness under his brows. He blinked slowly and steadied his gaze again. 

“You’re asking a lot of me, Inspector.” 

“Well, I,” Pickle Inspector closed his lips softly and his eyes flicked away, taking in the frame of the ornate hotel doors, their heavy brass handles, the granite floor under their feet. He let out a small breath and brought his head back up to face Hearts dead on. “I trust you. Mmmaybe that mmmakes me a fool but I do.”

Hearts plucked Pickle Inspector’s hand from his arm. He stood holding it, Pickle Inspector’s fingers balled against his palm. The detective watched him silently, barely breathing. The noise of the rain starting to beat on the hotel doors filled the air between them. Boxcars pushed his jaw to one side, his eyes moving steadily to the door as he slowly started nodding his head.

“Does she know about Slick?” Boxcars asked in a grumble. 

“I th-think it’s innnevitable that she find out now.” Pickle Inspector answered. “But w-would she care? No, I’m s-sure not.” 

Boxcars took that into consideration, his thumb rubbing circles over the back of Pickle Inspector’s hand. The feeling helped the detective take a deep, quiet breath and let it out. 

“I think, w-with Broad here, we h-have a rare opportunity innn front of us.”

“What do you mean?” Boxcars peered at him. 

“I-If we all w-worked together, if you w-would try a united front ah-against the Bocce B-Boys, we c-could take them on and s-save Slick.” 

Boxcars’s brow twisted and tightened into a knot there was no untying. He shook his head, his mouth opening to show his sharp teeth jutting over his upper lip. 

“Pi,” he said, “You’re dreaming. The Bocces don’t even have Slick.” 

“Nnno but they st-still took him. That nnneeds to be repaid, doesn’t it? And we c-could find out h-how they lost him after that.” Pickle Inspector’s gut squirmed inside him and it hurt to keep up this charade but he was already asking so much of Boxcars. The safety of his lie was too dear to let go of now.

“You, me and that nosy broad are gonna take on eight bruisers and Jack Pallino?” Boxcars asked dryly.

“Not just us,” Pickle Inspector shook his wet head, sprinkling water from his damp hair. “B-Broad can call her p-partner, you c-could call Deuce, we’ve g-got a truck full of guns now…” 

He shrugged, his eyes turning bright and manic with the idea. 

“Jesus, do you hear yourself?” Boxcars looked like he was taking Pickle Inspector in for the first time. His disbelief turned very slowly into a crooked smile. “I really am rubbing off on you, huh?” 

“Mmmaybe a little,” Pickle Inspector let out a tired little puff of a laugh. 

“What’s your girl got to say about this?” Boxcars cocked an eyebrow. “She don’t seem the type to jump into a fight.” 

“She d-doesn’t like it,” Pickle Inspector admitted. “But she a-agrees it’s our b-best chance to take down the Bocce Boys. She’s got her f-flamethrower, really Broad’s b-better in a fight than I am.” 

He paused and wrapped Boxcars’s hand in his. 

“And she’s not ‘mmmy girl,’ Hearts. You know that.”

Boxcars looked at their hands and thought. 

“And you vouch for her partner?” He asked. 

“I v-vouch for my whole Team.” Pickle Inspector nodded. “I-If they do a-anything you don’t like j-just take it up with me. I’ll shake on it.”

He drew his hand back and held it up to shake. 

“They’re mmmy responsibility. A-All of them.”

It felt flimsy at best and manipulative at worst. Pickle Inspector didn’t know if the gesture really meant anything at all, but he figured that would be Hearts’s decision, not his.

Boxcars took him in. Pickle Inspector was about as pale and sweaty as ever, and he shivered lightly from being out in the rain. He looked like a man who had been through an ordeal, and the manic glint in his eye assured Boxcars that he would go through still more tonight. The glassy facade Pickle Inspector hid behind was gone now, leaving a tall, goofy looking man who stood firm and watched him with familiarity and purpose. He thought about the risk Pickle Inspector was offering to take with him. He thought about why he had hired Pickle Inspector in the first place. 

“Is that what makes you a good guy?” Boxcars asked. “You’ll jump in front of trouble for other people?” 

“That’s a d-detective’s job.” Pickle Inspector tilted his head. “If it mmmakes me a good guy, I don’t… I r-really can’t say.” 

“I guess I’ll say it for you.” 

Boxcars took his hand and shook it. Pickle Inspector shuddered out a breath, hanging onto Boxcars’s hand as they finished the shake and squeezing him tight. 

“Thank you, Hearts.” He said softly, finally bringing them to the doors. Boxcars followed him, falling in step with Pickle Inspector as they moved into the cold and the rain. 

“You say that broad has a flamethrower?” Boxcars asked, keeping him close as they both hunched against the storm. The detective was freezing already and Boxcars was glad to keep him warm. “How’s she even lift it, she’s so scrawny.”

“B-Broad’s a lot str-stronger than she looks.” Pickle Inspector told him. He brought them down the block towards the Beetle where Broad and Pug Nose waited for them. In the wind and the rain he had to lean into Boxcars’s ear just to be heard. “Y’know y-you two would get along if you tried.”

“That whiskey really went to your head, Pi.” Boxcars told him. 

They reached the Beetle. Nervous Broad sat behind the wheel with her flamethrower perched over the gear shift, its nose leaned on Pug Nose’s chest. Boxcars came up on the passenger’s side and opened the door, put his foot on the running board and tipped the car towards him so Pug Nose was slanted in their seat. He leaned in to keep his face out of the rain, while Pickle Inspector stood getting wet by the hood. 

“So Pug,” The Beetle eased towards Boxcars and let out a few metallic squeals. “You’re taking us over to your buddies at the Bocce Yard, huh?”

Pug Nose glared at him, their black eyes steady only with an effort that washed out the rest of their face. They hissed out a sigh, their hands cuffed together in their lap. 

“Yeah.” They said on one short, bitter breath. 

Boxcars looked past them at Broad, who returned his gaze as steadily as she had hours before. 

“And you heard Pi’s nutty plan.” He checked with her. Her brow creased when he used Pickle Inspector’s nickname, then she nodded. “What do you make of it?”

“I think it’s c-crazy.” She disliked the plan intensely but if it brought Hysterical Dame to her side and gave them the chance to steal Pickle Inspector away from the Crew, she was willing to play along. Broad’s faith in herself and Dame was unshakable, after all. 

She slowly looked from Boxcars out at Pickle Inspector, who was getting soaked by the rain and looked too lost in his head to notice. His hair flopped down onto his face in a wet slump and he noticed that long enough to push it back over his forehead. 

“But he th-thinks there’s something to taking out the B-Bocce Boys.” She watched Pickle Inspector, then looked directly into Boxcars’s eyes. The nose of her flamethrower rested on Pug Nose’s chest and angled towards his face. “And D-Dame and I have t-taken down a mob before. So we can get this done.”

She gave Boxcars an indelicate stare that bored into his deeper than Pickle Inspector’s. 

“That’s a lot of big talk.” Boxcars returned the stare and let the talk just be talk. “Now what d’you know about Slick?” 

“This one t-told me.” She looked briefly at Pug Nose, who said nothing and stared ahead, hatefully, at Pickle Inspector. “The B-Bocce Boys kidnapped Slick, then th-they lost him. Nnnow Pi thinks we can f-find him if we go knnnock the B-Bocces’ heads.” 

“Sounds like you really love his plan.” Boxcars said.

“It’s d-dangerous and foolish,” Nervous Broad nodded. “And it’s going to put the B-Bocce Boys in a w-world of hurt.”

Hearts let out a bark of a laugh, picking his head up to look over at the soaked Pickle Inspector. 

“I think I see what you mean, Pi.”

He bent back into the car. 

“You’re gonna bring your partner in, is that right?”

“She’s already o-on her way to meet us.” Broad replied. “I s-suppose you’ll want to call Clubs Deuce to come a-along too.” 

“Is that a problem?”

Nervous Broad shrugged. 

“As long as he d-doesn’t get in the way.” She answered. 

Boxcars took that in and then cut a laugh between his teeth. 

“Alright then. Alright.” He nodded slowly, closed the door and turned to Pickle Inspector. 

The tall man was shivering, drenched after standing in the rain trying to find the perfect way to explain how deeply he had betrayed Boxcars right before they all went and risked their lives together. He folded his arms around himself and his big blue eyes watched Boxcars intently. 

“Let’s get you out of the rain.” Boxcars smiled at him, stepping off Broad’s car and taking Pickle Inspector’s arm. He was freezing and Boxcars drew them together, leaning to speak near Pickle Inspector’s ear while they both squinted against the rain. “Some storm huh?” 

“A-At least, wh-when it pours like this,” Pickle Inspector hunched forward, his stutter broken into pieces of chatter by his heavy shivering. He pressed in against Boxcars’s warmth. “It c-can’t stay this bad forever.”


	9. A Rumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real because it's time to have a rumble. 
> 
> Can't Take My Eyes Off of You, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NGFToiLtXro

Hearts called Clubs from the truck. He kept it short even as the rain closed the Gladiator in a dark, private bubble. Clubs had a lot of questions and Hearts told him to hang onto them. They would meet at the Low Town junkyard, the recently established Bocce Yard, and he would give Clubs the details in person. His best buddy didn’t like it much but he listened to Hearts’s simple explanation of the Bocce Boys’ bungled kidnapping, sighed, and said he’d be there. 

While Hearts talked Pickle Inspector sat fiddling and fidgeting and frumpling. He pulled his soaked overcoat tight, trying to feel warm as it hung wet and heavy on his bony shoulders. He tucked his hand under the left lapel and pet the seam of his inside pocket. Hearts hung up and they sat with the rain washing light out of the cab, sheets of water spiraling across the windshield in mixing shades of black. 

For a moment they were just two people together in darkness, visible only to each other and then only as dim shapes moving with the swirl of the rain. The clattering on the roof erased all other sound. Eyes met with soft familiarity. They breathed together in the dark.

And then Hearts brought the truck growling to life. The headlights blinked awake and they saw each other and the road ahead. The dim red clock on the dashboard read nine. 

Hearts figured he’d bought himself at least a little time to figure out how he would explain all this to Clubs. Slick’s kidnapping seemed straightforward enough but there was still the question of where the Bocce Boys lost him. And why Hearts was showing up with a fistful of snoops, specifically Team Sleuth’s braintrust. 

Clubs might see the sense in hiring a detective to solve this mystery. And Clubs might ask why on Earth Hearts would hire _this_ detective to solve it.

He chewed a weak answer as they prowled passed the Hotel Bacall. The Gladiator grumbled to a stop behind Nervous Broad’s Beetle, its lights outlining two figures in the cab. Broad finished a phone call abruptly as the light touched her, dropping her phone into her purse and starting the car. Pug Nose sat hunched, bitter, handcuffed and unmoving on the passenger’s side. They stared out at the truck with the rain smearing their face into a grey blur. The Beetle pulled into the street and led them back through the harbor into the long, empty blocks of Low Town. 

The noise of the rain grew sharper and Hearts turned to find Pickle Inspector tuning the radio through swarm after swarm of static. 

“Figure the storm’s knocked out the reception.” Hearts told him.

Pickle Inspector hummed like he was listening, holding his chin and moving two long fingers back and forth over his thin frown. This was the most bug-eyed he had been all day, Hearts was sure. The look on his face intensified, eyes red rimmed and glowing white, as he searched for a miracle station.

“You in there, Inspector?” Hearts asked. 

The detective’s eyes swam in his head and he looked up, hearing his name in a question. He silenced the radio and sat up. 

“Yes, s-sorry. I don’t, ah, I didn’t mmmean to float off like that.” Hearts heard the same hesitation and then silence that Pickle Inspector had been hiding something behind all day. He drew in a breath as if to finally break that silence and instead he tucked himself deep inside his wet overcoat and dragged his long fingers through his drooping mop of hair. “It’s just b-been a long, crazy day.” 

“Yeah, you can say that again.” Hearts noticed his hair was a swampy brunette now. He didn’t mind the change. Pickle Inspector’s waves stayed squashed down for a second then sprang back up into their usual hair-raised mess. A shimmer of water bounced free and Hearts couldn’t help laughing. 

Pickle Inspector pouted at him, Hearts smiled. 

“Sure, sure, it’s been one hell of a day.” He said. “But what if I told you I’ve been waiting for something like this?”

“Waiting to go and st-start a fight? You?” Pickle Inspector’s expression softened while his back stayed tense and his hands knitted together on the lid of his leftovers.

“Ha! Yeah, you get it. Y’know, with all this snooping around for receipts and headtrips and chislers I was starting to worry I’d be stuck just driving around all day.” Hearts grinned at the stormy night, glancing between the road and his partner. “Now I finally got something fun to do, a chance to show off a little.” 

“Well, I’m glad o-one of us will have fun.” Pickle Inspector’s voice was soft but sincere. “I-I just can’t h-help worrying. Everything’s so…”

He didn’t find words for it and so Pickle Inspector tried to project his explanation for everything out onto the dark night through his third eye. That didn’t work either. 

“Say, where was all this second guessing when you decided to go and dance with the Pug?” Hearts tilted his head towards Pickle Inspector. “Or when you went into Felt Manor to use the bathroom, huh? What happened to ‘I got a truck full of guns’ Pickle Inspector?”

“He’s st-still here,” the detective raised one hand and then gently folded it together with its twin. “He just d-doesn’t like roping so mmmany people into a d-dangerous plan.” 

“You really do think you’re the only one who gets to jump in front of trouble.” Hearts’s voice was a warm rumble as he shook his head. “Don’t you know, Pi? Me, Clubs, that nosy broad and her partner, we like trouble just as well as you do. Better, even.”

Hearts didn’t have to look to know Pickle Inspector was listening and slowly smiling. He looked anyway and smiled back. 

“Now you want to worry,” Hearts continued, shrugging peaceably. “Go ahead, you invented it after all. But don’t start thinking I’d let anything happen to you.” 

“Ohh,” Pickle Inspector drummed on the sustainably recycled cardboard lid of his leftovers. Color and pallor danced on his face. “Hearts you r-really… You r-really are too much, you know that?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear it. So I’m a sap, tell me something I don’t know.” 

“I uh,” Pickle Inspector’s eyes grew glassy. “I like it. Quite a lot, ah-actually.”

“Aha, just as I suspected,” Hearts grinned and wagged a finger. “See, you ain’t the only smart guy around no more, Pi. This detective work ain’t so hard.” 

Pickle Inspector laughed through his exhaustion. He sighed out of his laugh slowly, drew in a new breath and tried to break his practiced silence one more time.

“Today has b-been so b-beyond me. I couldn’t guess how a-any of this would t-turn out... I couldn’t guess that the b-best part would be getting to knnnow you.” There was so much more to say but he had to start somewhere. He took a breath to piece the rest together, his color rising from his chest up to his ears. 

“Who’s the sap now, huh?” Hearts squeezed Pickle Inspector’s shoulder, leaving a hot handprint he felt through his cold, clammy coat. His crooked smile assured Pickle Inspector that Hearts agreed with him.

They were closing on the Bocce Yard now, its mountainous shape built of decomposing automobiles, a raw, rusted scrap metal silhouette growing against the black sky. Two pairs of headlights moved bone white across the empty faces of buildings. The road hissed under them. 

“There’s so mmmuch to say and, there’s s-so mmmuch at stake I don’t knnnow how to p-put it all together. Any of it.” Pickle Inspector asked himself how he could break it to Hearts. He answered that there was only one decision left that mattered, and it wasn’t his to make. A new silence folded over him as he realized it didn’t matter when he told Hearts because things would only ever turn out the one way. “I just… I wish things could’ve b-been different.” 

Hearts sighed, squinting through the rain, and spoke deliberately. Pickle Inspector’s searchlights trained on him. 

“Y’know, when you asked before why I hired you I guess I didn’t give you much of an answer. Maybe I wasn’t thinking too hard about it but I did figure a detective could find Slick a lot faster than me and Clubs. So sure, I thought why not hire somebody who’d know what to do better than I would.” 

The Yard loomed over the street, a massive wall built of derelict cars stacked one atop another enclosing the mountain of metal. The white headlights passed over those broken forms as they rolled by. 

“It just happened that I met you this morning, and you gave Tavros your card, and it all seemed to come together real pretty,” Hearts spoke to the storm and let Pickle Inspector listen in. “But y’wanna know why I hired you, why I wanted to keep this all hush-hush when we started out…”

Ahead of them Broad turned down a tight lane between two tall, shadowed blocks. The Gladiator followed her. Her headlights touched the enormous, cherry red lines of a Chrysler at the other end of the lane. They flicked out a moment later.

“You get right down to it, I hired you because I wanted to see you again.” 

The truck stopped and Hearts turned to see Pickle Inspector’s blue eyes swimming in the shifting light of the storm. 

“It’s foolishness, I know,” Hearts said with a joyless smile. “But there is it.”

“Nnno, it’s not, it’s--” Pickle Inspector shivered in his seat. “It’s a-awfully--”

He sucked in a deep breath. 

“Hearts there’s something you nnneed to know.”

“Hang onto it, Pi.” Hearts killed the engine, leaning on the steering wheel to look out at the lane. Behind the red Chrysler he saw the round black hood of Clubs’s Desoto. 

“Nnno, Hearts you r-really-- I-- I nnneed you to know,” Pickle Inspector reached for his hand and Hearts took it, giving him a tender squeeze.

“Pi, c’mon. I already know.” His face was rosy and sad. “It’s been a fun joy ride, but we both know it can’t work out. Now c’mon, if we keep everybody waiting they’re gonna think we really _are_ up to something.”

He gave Pickle Inspector another squeeze then took his hand away and climbed out of the truck. Clubs came down the lane to meet him, asking all his questions as they watched Nervous Broad wrangling Pug Nose and her flamethrower out of the Beetle. Hearts answered the questions he could, explaining that the Bocce Boys kidnapped Slick with Pug Nose’s help, and that he and Pickle Inspector had caught Pug Nose with Broad’s help. Pickle Inspector slunk mopingly out of the Gladiator to join them as Hysterical Dame churned down her window and poked her pretty face into the storm.

“Suppose we come up with a plan someplace dry?” She spoke sharply to be heard over the rain. The doors of the Chrysler unlocked. “Everybody pile in!” 

Dame sat under the wheel and turned to watch the rest of the car. Broad elbowed Pug Nose in on the passenger’s side and perched them on the cushioned divider between the front seats. They tangled their legs with Pickle Inspector’s, who sat in the middle of the back seat with Hearts and Clubs on either side of him. 

“Jesus, you people really are a bunch of clowns, huh? All crammed in here.” Pug Nose spat as the whole car faced them. They kicked hard at Pickle Inspector’s ankles. 

“Would you st-stop?” Pickle Inspector shuffled around, giving up his few inches of legroom and tucking his legs in the tight space between Hearts and the front seat. “You’ve already lost, you don’t nnneed to be such a b-bad sport.”

“B-B-Bite me.” Pug Nose snapped at him, jangling their cuffed hands. 

“You’re a real pal, huh?” Clubs snorted at Pug Nose. “So this is the one nabbed Slick, huh Hearts?”

“This is them.” Hearts nodded solemnly. “Pug Nose here thought it would be a swell idea to kidnap Spades and hand him over to Jack Pallino. So now they’re gonna help us wallop those assholes and get him back.”

“Spades Slick has been _kidnapped_?” Dame exclaimed with a gasp and a hand to her round cheek. Broad motioned discreetly for her to dial it back. 

“Yeah,” Clubs replied, eyeing Pug Nose as they kept a steady glare on Pickle Inspector. “Hell of a thing for some nobody to do. How’s it working out for you, Pug?”

“Swell.” Pug Nose growled with Broad’s flamethrower digging into their back, a knot still aching on the back of their head, boxed in by rival mobsters, and left with nothing to do for themself but kick at the man whose meddling had landed them here. 

“Ow! You’re not mmmaking this any b-better for yourself.” Pickle Inspector said, having to fold his long, long legs over Hearts’s lap to keep them safe. Hearts put a big hand on his bony knees. 

“So why’re we here with a bunch of snoops?” Clubs asked. 

“I hired this one to find Slick.” Hearts gave Pickle Inspector’s knees a pat and the detective said a soft ‘hello’ to Clubs. “And the bird with the flamethrower helped us bring in the Pug. Her girl Friday is the muscle, I’m guessing?”

He addressed the question to Dame, who shrugged cutely and reached over to squeeze Broad’s bicep. 

“Well I do my share, but Broady’s got a couple tickets to the Gun Show on her too. Show ‘em, Broad.” Dame smiled a gorgeous smile at her wife but Broad still shook her head cooly. 

“Not nnnow, Dame.” 

“Aw, c’mon, it’s good for morale if you show off. Ain’t we supposed to be a team here? The uh, the Saving Spades Slick Squad?” Dame addressed the car. 

“Mmmaybe the Spades Slick Salvation Army?” Pickle Inspector offered. 

“Could be the Bocce Ball Busters,” Hearts suggested.

“You want it to be simple, y’know, snappy. Like, Slick’s Saviors.” Clubs added. 

“You’ll all be real cute together once you’re clown car compacted.” Pug Nose promised. “Clown car cubed, right here in the Yard in the uh, the compactor.” 

“It’s nnnot funny if you h-have to explain it.” Broad told them brutally. Pug Nose tried to cross their arms and was stopped by their handcuffs. 

“G-Getting back on track,” Pickle Inspector tried to bring the meeting together. “We nnneed a plan of attack. Wh-What do we know about the Yard?”

Everyone looked at Pug Nose except Dame, who spoke up brightly: 

“There’s some nine guys here. A couple cars have been prowling around, big red and green jobs, but they’re all back now. There’s only one way inside, through a guarded gate in the electric fence that runs the north side of the block. They got two Boys on the gate at all times, the rest kind of mill about inside.” 

Pug Nose turned to her and asked what they and the other mobsters were wondering. 

“How the hell do you know all that?” 

“I was combing this side of town some today. And, well you know, information is a good gumshoe’s stock and trade, ain’t it?” She spoke cutely, tilted up her rosy cheeks in a girlish smile. Her hazel eyes bored straight into Pug Nose’s, a drilling metal stare with such a promise of violence behind it that the nose of Broad’s flamethrower digging into their back felt like nothing at all. She telepathically dared Pug Nose to ask why she had been casing the Bocce Yard. They didn’t take her up on it. “A gal’s got to fill her day somehow, right?”

“Hell, why didn’t you hire her, Hearts?” Clubs looked impressed. 

“Leave that.” Hearts told him, blushing. 

“S-So,” Pickle Inspector spoke evenly. “We nnneed to get through the gate. C-Could we sneak through wh-when the next car comes out?” 

Dame shook her head. 

“There’s no room for sneaking, really, the gate’s hemmed in by the wall of cars they built around their big trash mountain. There’s no getting in any other way.”

Pug Nose picked their head up and looked first at Hearts, then Clubs, slowly and preciously jingling their handcuffs. 

“You got something to say or you just feel like dancing?” Hearts growled at them. 

“I got something to say, sure.” They nodded. “So maybe we make a deal for it.” 

“Yeah, we’ll cut a deal with the chisler who kidnapped our boss just that easy.” Clubs scoffed. 

“I don’t hear anybody coming up with a real plan. And sure, I’d love to see the fireworks while you all charge that electric fence.” Pug Nose had a hungry, violent grin on their face. “But say you boys part with some money and I take you in a way nobody knows about.” 

“You believe this?” Hearts looked at Clubs. “Some loyalty, huh?” 

“I’ll say.” Clubs replied. “How’d you come to know about this way nobody knows about? You do a lot of sneaking behind Pallino’s back?” 

“So maybe I explored the Yard some more than the Boys. They never been too smart about their surroundings, they’re all just a bunch of wrecking balls.” Pug Nose sniffed a sharp, whistling sniff. They cleared their throat composedly. “You understand, Deuce. When you’re small it pays to be smart, don’t it?” 

“You calling me small?” Clubs asked, an expressionless tension hardening his face while he sat with his feet dangling just over the floor of the car. Everyone else’s eyes ticked from him to Pug Nose, Hearts smiled and pet Pickle Inspector’s calves. 

“I uh, I don’t mean like, uh, _small_ small.” Pug Nose stared at him, scrambling for the right answer. 

“Y’know we’d make quick work of that fence if we sent this one through it with some dynamite in their pockets.” Clubs proposed, a vicious glint in his eye.

“Now there’s an idea.” Hearts said, rubbing his chin with one hand and Pickle Inspector’s legs with the other. The detective stiffened across his lap and Hearts tried to soothe him without dropping his bravado. “I like it, real simple and snappy, Clubs.” 

“W-Wait a second,” Pug Nose hissed, looking between Hearts and Clubs. “Now, maybe we work something out, I don’t know, nice and easy? I told you, I can get you all inside. Nice and easy.” 

The mobsters glanced at each other, then Hearts spoke. 

“You get us inside, we take out the Bocce Boys, then we talk about a deal. For all we know you’d take us right into an ambush.” 

“Yeah, you want some mercy you’re gonna have to earn it.” Clubs said coldly. Hearts shot him a glance that said ‘nice one’ and Clubs cracked a smile. 

“Alright,” Pug Nose said slowly, resigning and leering at Pickle Inspector. They posed their next question to the detective, who made an effort to look through them and not at them. “I guess that’s the best anybody could hope for, huh?” 

“T-Tell us how you’ll g-get us inside.” He said. 

Pug Nose didn’t wait to be told twice. They explained that the Low Town junkyard had been rearranged and reinforced into a walled compound of scrap metal, barbed wire and derelict vehicles from the impound lot. It took up a city block, the impound lot set quietly in the shadow of the towering mountain of junk the Bocce Boys had built for themselves. The sea of abandoned cars from the impound was slowly being swallowed up by the Yard. 

The wall of cars closed the Yard in on all sides, the only entrance from the road being through the guarded gate in the electric fence on the north side. Beyond the gate there was a machine shop they used to chop cars and people alike, and past that up a narrow stretch was the Bocce Boys’s clubhouse. Jack Pallino spent most nights there, directing his Boys where to go and what to do from the epicenter of the junkyard. An elaborate system of cameras watched all of the Yard and fed back to the Pallino’s clubhouse. Even if the Saving Spades Slick Squad charged in and managed to take the gate the rest of the compound would be alerted and they would face down a lot of muscular reinforcements before they even hoped to find Jack Pallino. 

Pug Nose claimed they could lead the as yet unnamed Spades Slick rescue mission through the eastern side of the wall, out of sight of any cameras, and around the mountain of scrap metal to a spot inside the compound. The rescue team would get the drop on the machine shop and from there the guarded gate, provided the Pug and the Midnight Crew could work something out. 

“We’ll nnneed to take down the B-Boys in the shop and at the g-gate first.” Pickle Inspector thought aloud. “Jack P-Pallino won’t surrender if he’s got a-any men left to fight for him.” 

“Surrender? Who cares about that?” Clubs snorted up at him, then saw Hearts shaking his head over the tall snoop’s shoulder. 

“Surrender’s right. We ain’t doing any killing tonight, Clubs.” Hearts left no room for argument. He pet Pickle Inspector’s legs again. “I gave the Inspector my word.” 

Broad and Dame shared a look across the front. 

“Are you serious?” Pug Nose stared at the two of them, their upper lip curling back over their teeth. “You just said you were going to explode me and now you’re not killing anybody?!” 

“We didn’t say we were _going_ to explode you.” Hearts said slowly, rubbing his chin to look extra dastardly. “We just floated the idea. You’re the one who took it like that.” 

“God dammit!” Pug Nose tossed their head and kicked at Pickle Inspector again. “You people are ridiculous!”

“So we only nnneed to pin the B-Bocce Boys down.” Broad said in a hum. “And there’s three places for the f-five of us to hit. Perhaps we t-take the attack in waves.”

“Oh, good idea, Broady!” Dame nodded eagerly, reading between the lines for Broad’s real plan. “We’ll need someone to split off and take out the gate. Say you boys go in, Boxcars, Deuce, start a ruckus and we’ll follow with reinforcements.” 

Hearts sucked his teeth with a humorless hiss. 

“Yeah that’s hysterical, Dame. You girls would lit out as soon as we turned our backs.” 

“Nooo,” Dame assured him. 

“Perish the th-thought.” Broad didn’t even muster the delicacy to lie well as her thought perished. 

“I d-don’t think we want to split up. At least nnnot like that.” Pickle Inspector said softly, looking around at the rest of the car. “Th-This can only work if we all do it t-together. If we sp-split up we’re just easier to pick off. And, and mmmaybe we’re not all f-friends but we can work together a-at the least. Broad,”

He tilted his head, imploring his friend to listen through her icy mood. Her face softened seeing the exhaustion on his.

“You and Deuce would mmmake a perfect team. He suh-supplies the explosives and you ignnnite them. You could blow open the gate in nnno time at all. There’s only two mmmen there, the t-two of you could c-corral them and then we’d have the B-Bocce Boys hemmed in by their own walls.”

Broad made a thoughtful sound, tilting her head to consider the plan and Clubs at once. Clubs gave her a similar look. 

“You sure you got the uh, the moxy to take down two Bocce Boys?” He asked, eyeing the scrawny woman with the flamethrower. “They ain’t much smaller than Hearts, y’know.”

“I suppose s-so,” Broad cocked her head in the other direction. “Will you b-be alright with just your firecrackers?”

“Oh, I’ll be alright. I got a lot more than just firecrackers.” Clubs cracked a wicked smile. He pushed his doughy chin at her flamethrower and its extra long, perforated nose. “What’s the make on that thing, anyhow? It looks like an M2-A2 but what’s that you got on the nose?” 

“O-Oh, it’s, ah, it’s a piece of mmmy own work. It helps focus the stream for, for work in crowded places. B-Better range in the rain, too.” Broad said, loosening up when asked about her handiwork. 

“You don’t say...” Clubs leaned up to admire her modifications.

“A-And Dame, you and B-Boxcars are great in c-close combat.” Pickle Inspector spoke up again. Dame looked from him to the big man holding Pickle Inspector’s legs across his lap. “I knnnow you two could take a few Bocce B-Boys. The three of us could hit the mmmachine shop while they t-take the gate, split the B-Bocces’ attention.” 

“Gives Broady and Deuce a nice little window to work in,” Dame nodded once, taking in the idea. “But you really want me and Boxcars to go busting heads with just our bare hands, Pickle? That’s one heckuva humdinger strategy.”

“You worried about firepower?” Hearts raised a black eyebrow. “Lemme tell you, the Inspector here got us a truck full of guns to work with.”

“D-Dame’s got some guns of her own, don’t you Dame?” Broad said to her girl. Dame brightened, her red lipstick glowing with her pearly grin. She pushed up her sleeve and flexed, patting her healthy toned muscle proudly.

“And don’t you worry, Pickle, I got a license for this one too.” Dame told him the same bad joke she always told when she showed off her gains. He smiled the same tired smile he always gave her in return then blinked rapidly as Hearts’s arm rose in front of his face and swelled to be the only thing in view. The wet fabric of his jacket highlighted his bicep as it flexed right in front of Pickle Inspector’s nose. 

“You mentioned a Gun Show, little lady?” Hearts grinned, peeking at Pickle Inspector and finding a blushing face he knew only he could see in the crowded car. 

“Oh, gosh, hang on,” Dame touched her python like she was flipping an invisible switch, clicked her tongue and then flexed extra hard. Her muscle showed hard, angular lines and a clean, well defined shadow against the rest of her arm. “Okey there, safety’s off. Go ahead and feel.”

Hearts sucked his teeth and lost a fight with his smile. He reached past Pug Nose’s head and gave Dame’s arm a squeeze. The proof was in the gains, he couldn’t dispute it. 

“Alright, maybe you got something there.” He allowed. 

“I can’t reach,” Dame concealed her carry again and nodded to Hearts’s arm. “Pickle check him for me, make sure he ain’t lying.” 

“W-Well, alright.” Pickle Inspector huffed quietly, his long hands readily wrapping around Hearts’s arm. He squeezed, feeling nothing but prime beef, muscle as heavy and hard as stone. Hearts flashed a smile at him and Pickle Inspector cleared his throat. “I-I think he’s got you b-beat, Dame.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Pug Nose groaned and threw their head back. “You’re gonna rot my teeth out if you keep this up. Let’s just get it over with already, I’m sick of being cramped up here!” 

“Wait, what’s that leave you with, stretch?” Clubs asked, looking up at Pickle Inspector. “You’re gonna lay down more cover?”

“Listen, get this guy alone with Jack Pallino and he’ll find out where Slick is in a minute.” Hearts clapped a hand on Pickle Inspector’s back, grinning. “Once we got the shop locked down and the gate busted open I’ll take him to Pallino. We’ll have Slick back by midnight.”

“R-Right.” Pickle Inspector said breathlessly, refusing to look at his friends or Pug Nose. He gave Clubs a steady stare, trying to look sure if not assured.

“Alright,” Clubs nodded. “If you say so, Hearts.” 

They piled out of the Chrysler. The lady sleuths stowed their earrings and Broad’s beaded necklace in Dame’s purse, keeping just their wedding bands. Broad and Clubs went down the lane to his Desoto, Dame hung onto Pug Nose and followed Hearts and Pickle Inspector to the Gladiator.

“So were the Bocce Boys going to change their name once you got made?” She asked Pug Nose. “Or would you be sort of an honorary Boy, capital ‘B’ like?”

“I asked Pallino about that a couple times and he just kept stalling me. Said he had to think about it.” Pug Nose said quietly, watching the two men ahead of them. “I don’t know what’s to think about. The old man just cares more about his stupid name than he cares about inclusivity. Fuck him.”

“See, that ain’t how you run a decent mob.” Hearts said over his shoulder. “A mob that ain’t intersectional ain’t worth peanuts. Nevermind the boss ignoring a good operator’s concerns.” 

“Yeah thanks for that.” The Pug snarled. “How’s about I send the Crew my resume?”

“You might’ve tried that before you went and crossed us.” Hearts growled back. He unlocked the truck and Pickle Inspector stuck his head and shoulders into the passenger’s side.

“I-I’ve got a sawed off I th-think you’ll like, Dame.” Pickle Inspector told her, pulling the shotgun from under his seat. “And I’ve got a derringer if you th-think you could use it.” 

“No offense, Pickle, but I don’t want to go and start tickling these Bocce Boys,” Dame accepted the sawed off and poked her head into the cab behind him. “What else you got?”

“There’s this,” Pickle Inspector showed her the snub-nose .38 and she shook her head. “Ah, wait, one mmmore.” 

He rifled in his pockets and produced Pug Nose’s Redhawk .45. Dame’s eyes glowed. 

“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” She accepted it giddily. 

“You’re giving this loopy cooze _my_ gun?” Pug Nose said in disgust. 

“Hey--” Dame toughened up, jamming the barrel of the Redhawk into their side. “Watch the language, crackerjack. Or you’re gonna get on this dame’s bad side in a cold minute.” 

She moved them away from the Gladiator and the remaining guns. Pickle Inspector leaned with his head tucked under the roof of the truck while Hearts reached through from the driver’s side and fished his holster and his other piece out of the glove compartment. He shrugged off his wet jacket and strapped on the holster. 

Pickle Inspector noted now that he wore a pair of Smith and Wesson .38s on .44 frames. Brutal weapons with the power of a .45, wider range, and more than enough pop to stop men not much smaller than Hearts in their tracks. The holster fit against Hearts’s ribs and the second gun slid into his pants pocket. 

“I liked your speech back there,” Hearts said quietly as he geared up. “You really are Mr. Oneness, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” Pickle Inspector shrugged, stuffing the derringer and the snub-nose into his coat pockets. “W-We’ll see if it’s w-worth anything.” 

“It is.” Hearts said within a breath of Pickle Inspector. The detective looked at him and saw only certainty in his face. Hearts reached through the car and brushed Pickle Inspector’s chin with his knuckle. He blushed. “You know it and I know it, and the others are gonna learn it in another minute.” 

“Th-Thanks, Hearts.” Pickle Inspector’s eyes glimmered and the new silence closed around him again. He smiled despite it. Hearts pulled on his jacket, the rain had turned it from charcoal to a wet black. He glanced at Pickle Inspector’s heavy pockets and touched the outline of the gun at his hip. 

“You sure you’ll be okey with just the derringer and the snub-nose?”

“I’ll mmmake due. If I t-tried to fire one of yours it would knnnock me on my ass.” 

“Maybe I oughta take you shooting cans some time,” Hearts mused, stepping back from the truck. Rain smattered down on them, streaming along the wide brim of his borsalino as he set it on his head. Pickle Inspector came around the truck, watching a glimmer of Hearts’s eyes reflected in the rain that dripped off his hat, Hearts’s face still in shadow.

“Wouldn’t that b-be nice?” 

They joined the others, Broad lugging a purse full of explosives while Clubs waddled along with his pockets stuffed. The storm beat down and their only hope against it was that the poor visibility made it impossible for the Bocce Boys to see them as they stalked along the side of the Yard, in the shadow of the mountain. The wall of hollowed out cars watched with empty headlights, torn out hoods, fenders split and hanging like loose ribs. Pug Nose brought them to a narrow seam in the wall. It didn’t look like a big enough crevice for a person to fit through but Pug Nose knew just how to squirm between the heavy steel bodies to the other side. 

Dame followed them, then Broad and then the lady sleuths pulled Hearts’s arms through while Clubs and Pickle Inspector pushed in his back. After him they both came through.

They all stayed quiet, finding themselves in a tight, murky place between the mountain of junk and the wall of cars. The ground was mud and gravel, the rain and the ooze leaking out of the mountain making it soupy and heavy on their shoes. 

Pug Nose led them single file through the muck and up the side of the mountain of trash. The rain moistened the smell of the heap and climbing hand and foot over it made the stench almost unbearable. As they climbed through the uneven shelves of garbage Hearts moved at the head of the group, steadying the path as they went. He took heavy, careful steps across the slippery inclines and metal jags. Whenever the climb was too traitorous or unsure he moved ahead and held his arms out to the others and pulled them through. No one second guessed the climb, nor the helping hands they each needed to manage it. 

Pug Nose took them along a path that hugged the back of the mountain, its looming form blocking them from the rain as the path leveled where it cut through the shelves of junk. To one side they had an open view of the Low Town impound lot, its tiny brick building floating in a sea of cars glinting in the darkness far below them. 

Pickle Inspector stood looking out at the lot. The others moved ahead, mounted the next crest and started picking their way down the slope towards the long, low shape of the machine shop. 

Hearts whistled one sharp, clear note and Pickle Inspector turned and hurried to him, grabbing his big hand and letting it pull him over the crest. 

“See something down there?” He asked, speaking right in Pickle Inspector’s ear as they stood huddled together at the top of the crest. Beneath them Broad made spidery progress down the slope towards Dame and Pug Nose, who were nestled in the shadow of the machine shop. Clubs started down after her and Pickle Inspector shook his head. 

“No, nothing.” His voice was little more than a breath, then he stooped down and climbed after the others into the compound.

They came into a dark seam at the foot of the mountain where it met the back of the machine shop. Its cement back wall blocked them from view. Metallic noise drilled through the air and the unnamed coalition stood together in the dark, each panting to catch their breath. They were never so relieved to feel the deep, heavy mud pulling at their feet. 

“Shop’s right here. Gate’s that way.” Pug Nose spoke in a low, harsh whisper, pointing to the featureless wall of the shop and then further down the alley of trash they all hid in. “I got you in and it wasn’t a trap, now I’m done with this. Uncuff me.”

“Pickle, say something to get me angry.” Dame said as Broad fished in her purse for the keys. She had the shotgun tucked under her arm and held the Redhawk in her other hand, patting her rouged cheeks with her fingertips. 

“The r-rest of this d-doesn’t have you in hysterics?” Pickle Inspector asked, envying her a great deal. Dame shook her head. “Uh, your f-favorite lipstick, Strawberry-Cherry Fields For Always #3, has b-been discontinued.”

“Awhh,” Dame screwed up her face and sneered, motioning for Pickle Inspector to keep it coming. 

“Ladies’ mags say victory curls are out.” Hearts told her. 

“ _No._ ” A familiar fire lit in her eyes and Dame chewed her lip and balled her fists. 

Broad produced her key ring and looked Dame dead in the eyes. 

“Your gym mmmembership has expired.”

“ _Geezy Petes--_ Yeah that’ll do it.” Dame nodded and clutched the sawed off tightly in both hands, its nose pointed down as she let out a few pumped puffs of air. 

“Deuce and I will t-take the gate.” Broad addressed all of them, flipping to find the right key for the handcuffs. “Y-You’ll knnnow when we have it b-but don’t wait around for us. You g-give them what for, we’ll come b-back you up when the gate’s g-gone. Nnno one gets left behind.” 

She addressed the last part to Dame and Pickle Inspector. They nodded. 

“S’plan if I ever heard one.” Clubs grinned, a bright manic look in his eyes. “Let’s get after it.”

Broad unlocked one of Pug Nose’s cuffs and clasped it to a curved spar of metal hooking through the trash mountain. She and Clubs moved quickly along the wall of the machine shop and through a curtain of rain and out of sight.

“Jesus Christ what did I expect?” Pug Nose took the curved spar in both hands and pulled, trying to loose one end of it from the mountain. It stayed buried in place. They looked at Pickle Inspector and Hysterical Dame with vicious attention. “You’re gonna leave me like this?”

“Seems like a pretty swell idea, yeah.” Dame nodded. “C’mon boys.”

Pickle Inspector palmed his .38 and hunched next to her, the two of them moving squishingly through the mud. Hearts loomed in next to him, only to stop as Pug Nose snapped: 

“And you--oh you got a surprise coming, big guy--” Their teeth gleamed in the darkness and their black eyes shone. “You want to know where Slick is?”

Hearts turned back as Dame and Pickle Inspector stepped out of their hiding spot.

“What do you mean?” Hearts growled at the Pug. 

Pug Nose watched him, their mouth hanging open as they panted out a few short, angry breaths. They looked from Hearts to Pickle Inspector as the detective stepped back to take the mobster’s arm. 

“Hearts we nnneed you.” 

“Yeah,” A cruel smile stretched slowly across their face. “Go and find out. Have a lot of fun.” 

Hearts glared at Pug Nose but let himself be led away. Dame stood half flattened against the side of the shop and nodded for them to join her. Cold white lights mounted on the open front of the shop shone down through the rain. They stood hunched together, Dame holding the sawed off against her hip, Pickle Inspector with his snub-nose flat against his thigh, and Hearts with his hands open and ready, fingers moving slowly, balling and flexing. From the shop there was the buzz of a drill, the rumble of voices, heavy footsteps on a cement floor. 

The noise of the rain grew sharper, Hearts and Pickle Inspector shared a look and a big, round, burly Bocce Boy in a tired green suit with red pinstripes stepped around the side of the shop. He, like the other Bocce Boys, was an inch shorter than Hearts and every bit as broad. His heavy arms stuck out from his orbular body, big meaty paws tinkering with a small portable radio, tuning it hopelessly against the storm. 

All three of them watched him fiddle with the radio, bowed legs moving slowly through the mud as he trundled further from the shop. He grumbled and waved the radio in the air, shook it, then huffed and turned his spherical body around and met Hearts Boxcars. He opened his mouth to yell and Hearts fed him a knuckle sandwich. 

There was a hard flat sound when Hearts’s fist connected and the other man’s head jerked painfully to the side. He dropped his radio in the muck and reached up, grabbing for a purchase on Hearts while Hearts’s fingers chewed the meat of his shoulder. His arm locked between them and Hearts’s fist moved between air and flesh with the force and precision of a piston working in an engine. 

The Bocce’s jaw was knocked loose, his eyes were hammered shut, and he pounded both fists into Hearts’s ribs, fighting blind and swinging hard into the body. The arm locked between them left him nowhere to go even as he fought and tried to drag himself free of Hearts’s grip. The onslaught continued, something in his jaw snapped and the cord of muscle in his short neck shocked painfully. He peeked an eye open to see rain gleaming off of Hearts’s ring, and then the ring drove closer and there was a hot red slice across his face. 

The Bocce groaned, finally ripping himself back and staggering. He swayed, spitting blood with his head drooping painfully as he pawed at what was left of his face. He wheezed and looked up just in time to see an elbow swinging down for his head. 

It hit and he fell in the mud next to his radio. 

Hearts reached down, panting, plucked the little radio up and touched its dial. He hummed, turning around and moving easily, loosely back to Dame and Pickle Inspector. Dame let out a sigh, Pickle Inspector watched him closely for any sign of pain and found none. Hearts tuned for a moment and then held the little radio out to Pickle Inspector. 

“You believe this?” Hearts grinned, the radio singing in his hand. His face was alive with color, his smile sharp and his eyes bright. Pickle Inspector took the radio from him and looked dopely at it. “A signal actually got through.”

Horns sighed, cymbals crashed, and a lulling, floral melody started growing between them. Pickle Inspector knew the song but not its name, he looked up at Hearts and found him smiling boyishly, snapping his fingers in time with the thrumming bass. 

“You don’t know this one?” He asked. 

“I knnnow it, just not right now.” He raised a hand to his forehead and twindled his fingers through the air. Pickle Inspector slipped the radio into his pocket, the volume dial twisting all the way up as he did. 

The drums kicked, hands clapped and a vibraphone chimed as a high, sweet voice sang:

_You're just too good to be true,_

_Can't take my eyes off of you._

Dame moved around the corner of the shop. A new Bocce Boy met her immediately, storming out to find his friend. Dame brought up the stock of the sawed off and hit him twice in the throat, drums beating in time. The Bocce stumbled back, reaching for his throat. Dame put the jagged nose of the sawed off against his orbular body and shoved him a foot through the mire. 

_You'd be like Heaven to touch,_

_I wanna hold you so much._

Pickle Inspector rushed through the empty space between them, moving his eyes and the nose of the .38 across the open mouth of the machine shop. He saw four car lifts, all raised with their steel beams as tall and wide as tree trunks. He saw tool boxes, spare parts, the underside of a broken engine, and somewhere in all of it three round bodies in green and red moving towards him.

_At long last, love has arrived_

_And I thank God I'm alive._

Hearts hooked an arm around the Bocce fighting Dame’s neck and held him still. She laid into him, a hard right cross landing deep in his stomach. He groaned horribly and bent forward against Hearts’s arm, which flexed and choked him. Pickle Inspector moved into the shop, out of sight.

“Get in there,” Dame told Hearts. “This just needs the woman’s touch--”

Hearts let go of the Bocce, Dame took the barrel of her shotgun in both hands and swung it like a bat into the man’s stomach.

From inside the shop the thin voice came:

_You're just too good to be true._

_Can't take my eyes off of you..._

Hearts followed the tall shape hurrying into harm’s way. Three Bocces were making for him while Pickle Inspector ducked deeper into the shop, angling back to keep the beams of the car lifts between them. Big blue eyes turned and found Hearts, Hearts’s hand found the back of a Bocce’s red and green striped collar. 

“C’mon Boys,” Hearts barked at the other two, throwing his fist hard into his Bocce’s back. “Don’t leave me out of the fun!”

_Pardon the way that I stare,_

_There's nothing else to compare._

One man turned to Hearts as he and his Bocce started trading savage blows. The other followed Pickle Inspector to the back of the shop. The detective pocketed his .38 and took out the derringer, staring at Hearts and thinking of a bad shot ricocheting to meet him. He saw Hearts’s arms working on his opponent with fluid grace, precision and power. 

_The sight of you leaves me weak._

_There are no words left to speak._

There was a metallic shriek and the whirling, toothy steel of a drill passed an inch in front of Pickle Inspector’s nose. He tore his eyes away as Hearts was closed in between two wrecking balls. The third Bocce swung with the drill again and Pickle Inspector squiggled away. He shot his arm out low, shoved the derringer into the Bocce’s left kidney and fired. The Bocce shouted and staggered back, face twisting with pain and hatred. The drill kept buzzing.

_But if you feel like I feel_

_Please let me know that it's real._

A dry red streak across the bare cement floor pooled under a manacled wooden chair against the back wall. Pickle Inspector tangled passed his Bocce then over and away from the chair. He leveled the derringer and missed a shot at the back of the Bocce’s neck. The bullet pinged uselessly off the cement wall. Behind them came the sound of fists landing on skin, panting breaths and grinding teeth. 

_You're just too good to be true,_

_Can't take my eyes off of you..._

The horns and cymbals hurried up and started swinging, kicking like legs in a chorus line, building and building as Pickle Inspector’s steps rang against the floor, the drill squealing for him from right, then left. He danced back, a quick, stumbling step sequence, glancing to see Hearts sag between his opponents. Trumpets kept high, heady time and a sax droned under them. 

“Slippery, uh?” Pickle Inspector’s Bocce snapped, punching forward with the drill and then swinging across with his other fist as the detective dodged away from the drill.

The fist connected hard with his brainy forehead, he spun, the floor swelled under him, the ceiling came down and he caught a glimpse of red eyes finding him from the shadow of heavy blows. 

The horns sighed loud and bright and then gone, Pickle Inspector hit the floor with a bony smack and the Bocce came on after him. 

The sweet voice belted from his pocket: 

_I love you, baby!_

Hearts dug in his heels and plowed forward, bowling into the body separating him and the detective and throwing it into the beam of a car lift. The Bocce’s spine rang against the metal and he slumped to the ground. 

_And if it's quite alright,_

_I need you, baby!_

Pickle Inspector wriggled, his hands and heels skidding, across the floor. Hearts lunged towards him, stooping to miss a big swing from the drill and grabbing Pickle Inspector under both arms. He swung the detective back up onto his feet, Pickle Inspector kicked one foot straight out as he came up and his shoe left a muddy streak across the nearest Bocce’s chin. The man stumbled back, and Pickle Inspector smiled back at Hearts. He planted both feet on the floor, leveled the derringer in front of him and fired once. 

_To warm the lonely night._

_I love you, baby,_

The Bocce with the drill froze, letting out a hoarse gasp and clutching the angry red welt in the fleshy seam of his throat. Pickle Inspector grabbed the wrist connected to the drill and held it aloft, fired again and hit the Bocce dead in the crotch. Hearts barked out a laugh, seeing the Bocce drop, holding himself, before a metal glean hooked across Hearts’s face and tore into the skin at his eye. 

_Trust in me when I say:_

Fingers curled into the gash on Hearts’s face and dragged him back. Pickle Inspector caught the drill, threw it back deep in the shop. It snarled and spun into the red shadow under the manacled chair. Hearts roared and twisted, elbowing back and breaking the grip of the Bocce who’d cut him. 

_Oh, pretty baby,_

_Don't bring me down, I pray._

The big men turned on each other. Hearts caught him deep in the stomach, the Bocce dragged him down with a groan, swung hard for his chin. Hearts’s head snapped into a painful profile, Pickle Inspector glimpsed thick, beaten skin nearly swelling his eye shut, a long red gash through his eyebrow and then a strangled grey mess as his collar cinched into his throat and Pickle Inspector was yanked back. 

_Oh, pretty baby,_

_Now that I've found you, stay._

The space between them stretched out. One man had Pickle Inspector by the back of his coat, the Bocce whose back interacted with the steel beam loomed up from the floor and closed in. Hearts traded blows with his own Bocce, neither of them stopping to feel pain. Pickle Inspector scrambled, swept the derringer up and leveled it on the round shoulder in front of him, fired with the body of the little gun against the Bocce’s ear. 

_And let me love you, baby…_

The man grunted and then whipped his fist across Pickle Inspector’s jaw. A burning red star spread across his skull. The noise of the other fight was washed out. His arms were pinned behind him by a brick wall, the weight of the derringer left his hand and a fist like a cannonball hammered into his stomach. 

Hearts threw his combatant down as all the air was smashed out of Pickle Inspector. 

_Let me love you..._

The detective’s feet skittered on the floor, his legs were useless under him, he saw a shivering double image of fists rising level with his screwy eyes. He pushed and pulled against the brick wall behind him. A black shape moved close and the fist drove in for his nose. He shut his eyes and felt a heavy body move against him. 

_You're just too good to be true._

_Can't take my eyes off of you._

He blinked, the wall behind him let up and Pickle Inspector slumped back, his legs turned to jelly. He swooned back and fell into a warm, wet arm. The black shape cleared and he found Hearts over him, holding the detective’s side in one hand and the Bocce’s throat in the other. Hearts smiled, dipping Pickle Inspector and then pulling him upright. He took the Bocce’s fingers in one fist, his wrist in the other and smashed the hand against the steel beam of the car riser. Metacarpals bent and broke in a second and the hand that had hurt Pickle Inspector was useless. 

The singer was barely audible over the Bocce’s howl. 

_You'd be like Heaven to touch,_

_I wanna hold you so much._

Hearts turned, folding his arm in against Pickle Inspector, who hung on and found that his chin fit perfectly against Hearts’s shoulder. He heard a meaty crack as Hearts worked on the man who’d dragged Pickle Inspector away. The detective gathered a breath, stepping lightly and following Hearts’s lead as he moved in and grabbed the Bocce’s wrist. He twisted until a heavy brutal crack sounded. Hearts felt the break vibrate against his palm and smiled, squeezing Pickle Inspector. 

_At long last, love has arrived._

_And I thank God I'm alive._

The other man squeezed back, then pulled at his holster, then let go suddenly and slipped under Hearts’s arm just as he’d done that morning. Hearts turned to see Pickle Inspector darting for the Bocce Hearts had thrown into the mud. The Bocce pointed a shining black gun at them. Pickle Inspector rushed in front of it. Hearts reached and found his holster empty.

_You're just too good to be true,_

_Can't take my eyes off you…._

The Bocce’s fist closed around his gun and Pickle Inspector moved like a snake down his arm, shoved it wide. A heavy shot shattered into the cement wall a foot from Hearts. Pickle Inspector jabbed Hearts’s gun into the man’s shoulder and fired. Blood shot three feet clear from the shoulder, the arm fell slack, the big, brutal gun flew out of Pickle Inspector’s hand. The Bocce hooked in with his other arm and Pickle Inspector braced himself for a flight into the back wall of the shop.

A punch hard enough to rattle his bones echoed. 

Hearts scooped Pickle Inspector in one arm, the other connecting mightily, sending the Bocce arching back into the mud. He landed and stopped moving. Pickle Inspector hung onto him, staring into Hearts’s face and shivering.

“Your eye,” His voice was shaking almost as hard as the rest of him. Hearts glanced around at the hurt and hobbled Bocces. He stooped to pick up his gun and came back up to find a handkerchief pressing into the cut on his face. Hearts huffed, patting Pickle Inspector’s back. 

“This is nothing,” Hearts smiled a sore smile, squinting as Pickle Inspector smeared blood away from his eye and then pressed his handkerchief down to staunch the bleeding. Hearts leaned into it and the detective’s palm cupped his cheek. “I can take my lumps. How’s your head?”

He gingerly touched Pickle Inspector’s temple, just shy of the red welt over his brow.

“He didn’t b-brain my d-damage,” Pickle Inspector said, the red mark disappearing almost entirely as he blushed. Hearts’s hand smoothed down his cheek and his crooked smile gleamed white. There was a blast from behind them as Dame loaded her opponent’s foot with birdshot. Their hands dropped away from each other.

“Whew! That’s smart shooting, Pickle.” Dame said, holding the shotgun at her hip as her Bocce fell into the mud and stayed down. “How come you always think of these things before I do?” 

“It comes with a lot of oh-overthinking.” Pickle Inspector collected his derringer, nodding his head absently as the song kicked up and up and up towards another crescendo. 

“I wonder what’s taking Broady so long,” Dame sighed and looked towards the gate. Hearts leaned over Pickle Inspector’s shoulder, tapping his thin arm to the beat. 

“What do you wanna bet they hit it right on time?” He said, following the building rhythm. Pickle Inspector knew exactly what he meant, and it was just too much so of course it was bound to happen. 

“Nnno, no, they can’t even hear it.” he insisted, staying close to Hearts. “It’s immmpossible.”

The horns swelled into another huge wave that rolled and sighed overheard and a fiery whip cracked through the sky above the gate.

The sweet voice called out as an explosion erupted, a tower of fire rending the gate open with a metallic scream. 

_I love you baby!_

“Who called it?” Hearts grinned, the horns celebrating behind the new shower of scrap metal and mud. The fire at the gate was rained out quickly but they all saw four figures running for the shop in its glow. Two big, round shadows and the shadows of one very tall and one very short pursuer. 

_And if it's quite alright_

_I need you, baby,_

“Pickle--” Dame put a hand out for him and he came to her. She took his arm and used him to leverage one foot out of the heavy mud. She whipped off her kitten heel, aimed, drew a breath and then chucked the shoe as hard as she could at the Bocce ahead of Broad. 

_To warm the lonely night._

_I love you, baby,_

The heel kicked hard into the man’s face, staggering him. He slowed to steady himself, Nervous Broad came up right behind him, raised her flamethrower and brought it down hard. He landed on his face in the mud. The last Bocce, the seventh of the eight bruisers, ran wide from the shop.

_Trust in me when I say:_

_Oh, pretty baby,_

He avoided his fallen friends and made for the narrow, snaking path up to the clubhouse. He moved fast for such a big man, huffing and puffing with the effort of running through the thick mud. A hissing black bomb sailed over his head and landed two feet ahead of him. 

_Don’t bring me down, I pray._

_Oh, pretty baby,_

A wave of muck knocked him on his back and he landed hard, blinded by wet splatter. Deuce cackled maniacally behind him, his laugh a high chatter as he closed distance. Broad came with him and shoved the nose of her flamethrower in the Bocce’s face. It was burnt and smoking and hissing, steaming at the touch of the rain. 

_Now that I’ve found you, stay._

_Oh, pretty baby,_

Dame laughed cheerily, hanging onto Pickle Inspector and hopping along next to him as they came to surround the seventh Bocce. Clubs found her shoe and handed it back to her, caked in mud with a spray of blood on the heel. 

“Sorry about your stocking there,” he piped as she put it back on. 

“Oh, pfff, these hose was already destroyed.” She said with a shake of her head. 

_Trust in me when I say:_

_I_ need _you, baby!_

_When will you come my way?_

Hearts was moving slow, breathing laboriously with his hand clasped against his ribs. Pickle Inspector left the others to go to him, coming in close and pulling Hearts’s arm around his shoulders like he had any chance of holding him up. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re ah-alright?” He said, staring indelicately to catch the smallest hint of a lie. 

“Just got my bell rung harder’n usual.” Hearts rubbed the purple side of his face and sighed, leaning against Pickle Inspector and pushing him four inches deeper in the mud. “S’Alright, Pi. I’ve had worse.”

_Oh pretty baby,_

_Now that I’ve found you, stay._

“Where’s Pallino?” Broad demanded of the man pinned under her flamethrower. 

“C-Clubhouse, right up there. He’s got Joey on the door, he’s the last of us Boys--” He answered in a thick, hurrying voice. He held up both hands and they all saw he was missing two fingers on his right hand, his knuckles freshly bandaged. “Jesus, Hearts, Clubs, we was only following orders, yknow? Nothing personal.”

“Lemme see that radio?” Hearts put his hand in Pickle Inspector’s pocket and took the radio out. 

_And let me love you, baby…_

_Let me love you..._

Hearts hummed and nodded through the final, lingering note, then brought the radio up, then down, and cracked it wide open on the seventh Bocce’s head. The man went cross eyed and flopped back in the mud with a loopy sigh. 

“So it’s j-just those two left.” Broad said, glancing around at the other four Bocce Ball Busters. Dame came to her side and took her arm, still red and pumped from the fight. Her touch was hot in the cold rain and Broad leaned into it. She saw Pickle Inspector huddled against Boxcars, holding the big man’s arm around his shoulders. “We sh-should come with you.” 

“Naw, no way,” Hearts shook his head, jostling Pickle Inspector as he clapped his hand on the detective’s thin arm. Pickle Inspector stared back at Broad, his face deadly serious as he shook his head. “Y’all need to stay down here and keep the Boys from making trouble. Me and the Inspector can handle these last two.” 

“W-Well,” Broad’s dreadful mood deepened into pure fear for her friend. She hung on tight to Dame, who looked up at her and squeezed back. “Wh-What’s your p-plan, then?”

“It’s--It’s very simple ah-actually.” Pickle Inspector lowered his head softly, looking at Broad and moving his eyes slowly to Hearts. “I’mmm going to go in there and s-see what he says.” 

“Really?” Broad couldn’t help a drop of fear in her voice. 

“Ha, you’re gonna let me take care of the rest, huh?” Hearts flashed his shark’s smile. Pickle Inspector nodded and hummed, turning his face away. 

“You get down here at the first sign of trouble,” Dame said, nodding up at Pickle Inspector. “We’ll get you out in one piece.”

“Be _careful_ , Pi,” Broad’s voice shivered out of her.

“I’ll try,” Pickle Inspector nodded, then turned and went away with Hearts. The two men hung onto one another as they started up the long slope towards the clubhouse. 

“Those two really worry for you.” Hearts mused, regaining his strength slowly and keeping his arm around the detective. 

“What’re f-friends for?” He answered softly. 

Hearts held onto him so Pickle Inspector didn’t go floating off as he lapsed into silence again. 

For the first time all day Pickle Inspector thought of nothing. His face was hot. His ears were ringing from the explosion. He heard his pulse beating through his battered head and felt Hearts’s pulse in his wrist. They were in time with each other. 

The path reached its height and dog-legged sharply behind a ridge in the trash mountain, curving out of sight. Pickle Inspector kept moving to take the curve and find the sequestered clubhouse, only to have Hearts’s hand tuck inside the front of his coat and pull him back. 

“Hang on, Pi.” Hearts held them together, pressed alongside the ridge. He eyed its crest but couldn’t see over it. “Fellas get real trigger happy hearing that kind of a fight but being stuck on a door. Trigger happy and jumpy. We gotta be careful here.”

Pickle Inspector came out of his head and nodded, looking around. 

“R-Right, careful.” His tired face turned from the ridge to Hearts. “S-So what do w-we do?”

“You’re asking me?” Hearts laughed lightly but saw how grim Pickle Inspector looked. The detective thought for a moment, then reached into Hearts’s coat and pulled his gun from his holster. 

“I don’t th-think careful will do it.” he said, putting the gun in Hearts’s hand. It looked like a toy as he took it. 

* * *

One loud, powerful shot hammered into the scrap metal in front of the clubhouse, startling the Bocce Boy guarding its door. He leveled his shotgun towards the noise and approached the ridge just as two long, pale hands waved above it like a pair of white flags. A high, exhausted voice called out: 

“Alr-r-right, alright, I suh-surrender!” 

A tall, soaked figure in a long, soaked overcoat backed around the ridge. The Bocce Boy whistled to him and the figure startled, turned and paled as the shotgun stared at him. 

“Oh g-god there’s mmmore of you?--Surrender, I surrender!” 

He kept his hands up and panted softly, sweat and rain coating his face. He started backing the way he had come, the Bocce moved quickly to close on him and the sweaty detective kept stuttering.

“Th-There’s a snnnub nose in my left pocket,” he said in a hurry. “A-A-And a derringer in the right. You c-can take them both!” 

He kept his hands up, the round man stepped up to him and yanked the guns out of his pockets and threw them over his round shoulder. With that done he brought his shotgun up to break the detective’s jaw but his arm caught on something. 

He turned and found Hearts Boxcars clamped onto his arm, twisting it back with a crushing grip. The detective lunged and grabbed the Bocce’s gun with tight, brittle hands and yanked it away. Hearts shoved the Bocce’s arm into his back and shouldered him flat into the side of the trash mountain. Shards of metal jabbed into the Bocce’s cheek and a stinging ooze came with them. The Bocce called for his boss, a red star burst on his temple and dropped him into a deep, numb blackness. 

Hearts let the last Bocce Boy slump to the ground. He didn’t get up to make any more trouble. 

That left just them and Jack Pallino. 

Pickle Inspector collected his guns and they came up to the Bocce Boys’ clubhouse.

The front of the building was the salvaged face of a Georgian style manor, tall elegant windows watching on either side of a tall, carved front door. The whole facade was painted a crisp white, and a pale blue glow hummed from inside the tall windows. As they came up they saw that the facade was just that, and on both sides the wooden front of the clubhouse ended in a jagged mess of split wood and loose nails. The sides of the building were huge sheets of corrugated metal, bolted to the lovely Georgian face by heavy iron bands. 

Both men were silent as they came up to the door. They took either side, Pickle Inspector reached and turned the knob and let the door swing open, his tall body flat against the front wall. 

No shots, no screams, no tank’s barrel poked out to greet them. The blue light swelled out onto the wet ground between them and they saw it flickering with shades of pale topaz and bright, acidic teal. They shared a look, then Hearts moved in with his gun against his thigh, Pickle Inspector right behind him. 

They came into a single tall, long room lit only by the blue light. The front was littered with tables, some holding papers and bric a brac, some with maps and tools and a coffee pot. Two diesel generators shuddered and thrummed beyond that, wires and cables stretching out of them back across the heartwood floor in long, snaking lines to the source of the blue glow.

At the back of the clubhouse a wall of monitors, all different sizes and shapes built up together into a twelve foot by twelve foot square, cast out the weightless blue light. Colder than moonlight.

The monitors showed every inch of the Yard from its demolished gates to the machine shop, the clubhouse, the peaks of the trash mountain. Some screens showed far off bar rooms and casino floors and bocce pitches and dim, loaded warehouses. They recognized Florian’s Bar, the lonesome shadow of the impound lot. In front of the screens a tall-backed director’s chair hid most of a small, round body. The unnatural blue light glowed off its bald head as the body turned and looked at Hearts and Pickle Inspector.

Jack Pallino was a man no taller than Ace Dick, dressed in crisp white from head to toe, orbular like the other Bocce Boys but lacking their size and strength. His expression of alert and delicate menace made up for that. He took them in, unhurried, seeing the guns without reaction. 

Pickle Inspector scanned the room for a glint of metal Pallino could use to arm himself. He found none. Hearts started towards the little man, leaving Pickle Inspector to parse through the front of the clubhouse. 

“It’s over, Pallino.” He said. “You bet against the Midnight Crew and you lost.” 

“You don’t say.” Pallino’s voice was low, steady, calm. He watched Hearts like one of his monitors, like the big man pointing a gun at him was really miles away. “You really know to put on a show, Boxcars. Getting the drop on my Boys like that, let me guess. That weasel Pug Nose got you in passed the cameras.”

“You really oughta vet your recruits, Jack.” Hearts said. “The Pug turned on you just as soon as they was caught. That’s hardly mob material.” 

“They got big ideas, that Pug, but no loyalty. You can see why I didn’t bring them into the family.” He admitted in his soft, unemotional tone. Pallino’s unhurried eyes moved over Hearts and beyond him to Pickle Inspector. “Good help is hard to find these days.”

“That’s a real shame.” Hearts sneered, motioning to Pallino with his gun. “Now let’s have some answers.” 

“You got a lot of questions, Boxcars? You, of all people?” Pallino spent a second looking surprised then relaxed back into his perfect calm. 

Hearts growled, his shoulder’s tightening. Pickle Inspector snooped through the nearest table, finding a wash of business-like papers, columns of figures done on a bookkeeping machine, forms and files from the impound, and a leather sap with dried blood caked on its heavy, coarse edge. 

“You know what I’m here for, Jack.” Hearts ground his frustration between his teeth. “Now what’d you do with Spades Slick?”

“What did I do with Spades Slick?” Pallino repeated, tilting his round head as if he were drawing up a fond but faded memory. “Why’s that important? You two are already here.” 

Pickle Inspector tested the sap on his hand, holding its wooden handle and bringing the leather side down. Even with a soft stroke it made a hard ‘smack!’ and left a tender red spot and a crust of dried blood on his palm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hearts growled. 

“Oh.” Pallino touched his chin, looking at Hearts and understanding something. “I see. Yeah, I thought it was strange, you two coming here together. But, of course, you worked out some deal to take me and my Boys down, didn’t you?” 

“Sure.” Hearts closed the rest of the way with Pallino, hating that the little man didn’t fear him. “What’s it matter to you?”

“Well where’s Droog? And where’s Problem Sleuth and Ace Dick?” Pallino’s eyes were bright and clear, asking Hearts something he couldn’t answer. He knew before he asked that Hearts couldn’t tell him, and Pallino relaxed into a self-satisfied smile. He let his voice carry across to the detective. “I should say, I appreciate you going easy on my Boys. That must have been your idea, Inspector.” 

He eyed Pickle Inspector then addressed Hearts.

“I hear he’s been doing a lot for you, Boxcars.”

“He’s the one who figured your scheme.” Hearts spoke in a low snarl, infuriated by Pallino. He held the gun level with the little man’s heart. “Now spill, where’s Spades?”

Pallino didn’t laugh but it colored his voice as he raised a small finger at Hearts, wagged it once and then moved it to Pickle Inspector. 

“Now that is funny,” he said. “This is one hell of a joke, Inspector. Should I tell him so you can run back down the hill? You’ll want to get away while you still can.”

Hearts’s teeth gleamed and he let out a snarl, bringing his fist up to knock a real answer out of Pallino’s tiny mouth. A voice from behind him made him freeze. 

“Hearts I knnnow where Slick is.” Pickle Inspector sounded sick. He kept speaking even though his voice was thick and wet. “Mmmy friends, they, th-they have him in Ace Dick’s c-car trunk. He’s fine he’s b-been in there since this mmmorning.” 

Hearts’s arm lowered slowly and he fell back a step, out of a fighting stance into loose, uneven shock. Pallino looked up into his face, a cold snake-eyed stare. 

“Maybe you ought to tell him a little more, Inspector.” Pallino said. “I don’t think it’s clicking yet.” 

Hearts turned with the slow, terrible weight of a planet spiraling into its sun. 

“Hearts I’mmm so s-sorry,” Pickle Inspector was shivering, his shoulders pinched tight up by his ears, his arms and fists shaking with tension, the knuckles of the hand gripping his .38 were white. His eyes were wet, deep dark and resigned. Cold blue. 

“Context, Inspector, not that sappy stuff. I guess you need me to fill the rest in, huh big guy?” Pallino sighed, smiling at the drama unfolding before him. He knit his little hands together over his round belly and explained. “Alright. We picked Slick up last night, brought him around for a chat but even when he’s good and loaded he’s a hellion. He bit off two of Frank’s fingers before we sapped him down.”

Hearts glanced over his shoulder just enough for Pallino to glimpse his good eye. The detective watched him with his shoulders slowly winding tighter and tighter as Pallino continued. 

“A little solitary in the sun does wonders for a personality like Slick’s so we locked him up over night. We would’ve pulled him out after he’d had a few hours to cook but then, just your luck Hearts, a little snoop started making a nuisance of himself and we had to open the impound. Ace Dick drove off with Slick in his ugly car before we realized what had happened. Then the little bastard up and disappeared.”

Hearts stopped looking at Pallino so Pickle Inspector did too. The glowing light touched the shape of Hearts’s broad shoulders, the wet lines of his jacket, dripped off the piece of metal in his hand. The rest of him was in shadow. 

“Pi,” His dark voice reached Pickle Inspector but Hearts broke off and started again almost at once. “Inspector. Is that true?”

“They’re k-keeping him safe, H-Hearts. He g-got a concussion buh-but he’d b-been watched and i-it’s sort of restful innn the trunk of a car.” Pickle Inspector shriveled, willing himself to say the magic words that would set things right but only finding nonsense. He stood staring at Hearts as he came slowly back across the room. There was no point of darkness on Pickle Inspector, just icy blue light casting a long, shivering shadow along the floor and up the front wall. 

“You knew,” Hearts’s voice was slow. “When I hired you, this morning. You already knew.” 

The detective sucked down a breath and nodded his soggy head.

“I have to say it was something else to watch you two,” Pallino spoke up, watching his problem turn around and walk away. “I sent Pug Nose down to clean up that bartender and they found you instead. I decided to send my Boys out to take a real look at you. We figured the Felt would put you down for us, Inspector, but that’s what we get for trusting those fools. Maybe I’m a little glad they didn’t finish you off. Seeing you work on Hearts has been a real treat.”

The space between them had seemed a stretch on and on, like they stood on either end of the same nightmare. Now, suddenly, the distance closed and Hearts was close enough to see glassy tears in Pickle Inspector’s eyes. Pickle Inspector saw half of Hearts’s dark mask, blood ruining one side of it. 

“Trust’s a funny thing.” Pallino pitied them. “People make such a big deal out of it, but really, once you need it it turns flimsy. You realize you were just wasting your time.”

“So how long were you gonna wait, Inspector?” Hearts blocked the rest of the clubhouse from view, turning his head slowly to try and catch Pickle Inspector’s eyes as he moved his face away. “Or was it too much fun conning me?”

“N-Nnno I just, I just nnnever found the time b-but I--” Pickle Inspector shuddered, seeing a horrible smile break out across Hearts’s face. He let out a high, throaty sound, his feet skittered on the floor as Hearts picked him up by his lapels. “I s-swear I wasn’t--I wasn’t--I didn’t--”

“You knew all along and you just kept me chasing my tail.” Hearts cut him off before Pickle Inspector wasted any more breath. “You figured you could con me and I’d give you ten thousand dollars for it.”

He broke into an airy, desperate laugh, the whites of his eyes beaming. 

“And you were right. It almost worked, except I wanted to tag along, huh?” He shook Pickle Inspector and the detective’s cold hands looped weakly around his fist, needing something to hold onto. “That’s why you tried to duck the case, that’s why you kept trying to run away.”

“N-No,” Pickle Inspector hung on with the last bit of strength in him, knowing his legs would’ve been useless even if they reached the ground. “It was never about the mmmoney. I d-don’t care about the mmmoney. Hearts I w-wasn’t trying to run away.”

“Then what were you doing?” Hearts tilted his head down and looked up so Pickle Inspector’s eyes finally met his. “I kept asking ‘where to next?’ and you always had a plan. So what were you really doing?”

“I was p-protecting mmmy friends.” Pickle Inspector admitted. “I wanted to g-get you away from themmm b-but then, we started t-talking and things. Just. It all g-got away from me.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Hearts’s face hardened. “It just got away from you?”

“I never wanted this I--I hated it!” Pickle Inspector dug his fingers into Hearts’s fist. “But I didn’t h-have any choice, you didn’t g-give me any choice!” 

“There is it.” Hearts let go of him and Pickle Inspector landed on his feet with a ‘rap’, staggering and wobbling but staying upright. “Now you finally cut the act, huh? You’re the smart one, you must be right. If I’d’ve never come around Slick would never have gone missing!”

“No--Hearts you’re b-being--”

“What? What am I being?” Hearts barked at him. He brought up his hand and raked it back and forth through Pickle Inspector’s wet hair, yanking on it before the hand moved away. “Am I ruffling your feathers? Now that I’m done playing patsy you can’t stomach me? It must’ve been such a chore for you, I’m awful sorry you hated it so much.”

Pickle Inspector ducked his head away from Hearts, scuttled back a step. He pocketed his gun and his shoulders rose and shook again. 

“I only hated lying to you--” He clutched the front of his coat where Hearts’s handprint was and started pulling on it miserably. Pickle Inspector looked into his face. It was a face that knew pain as an old friend, it was battered and bloodied, his right eye nearly swollen shut, the gash across his eyebrow leaving a red smear down his cheek. It was a face that should have nothing to fear. Everything had been done to it that anybody could think of. “B-But I’d do it again, to s-save my friends.”

“You really are a good guy,” A new and deeper hurt gripped Hearts, unlike anything he’d felt before. “A great fucking guy!”

He came forward, Pickle Inspector shut his eyes and braced himself for everything he deserved. A long freezing moment dragged between them until Pickle Inspector couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He opened his eyes and saw the pain in Hearts’s face. 

“How stupid,” Hearts raised hand and smashed its heel into the cut above his bad eye, sending a hot spark of pain through him and splattering blood down his cheek. “Stupid! Stupid! What did I expect? Trusting a rent-a-cop.” 

“Nnno, Hearts, stop it, p-please--” Pickle Inspector reached for him and Hearts gave him a burning stare. He recoiled and watched the blood dripping down the big man’s chin, down his wrist. “I w-wasn’t pretending. B-But my friends, th-they didn’t do ah-anything wrong and I c-can’t just run out on them b-because I--Because I…”

“You can’t even make yourself say it.” Hearts dragged his bloody palm down the side of his face. He waited and Pickle Inspector never said it. He started laughing, a low, breathless, awful laugh that tightened the painful knot in Pickle Inspector’s stomach.

“S’Funny,” Hearts leaned back with his eyes glowing. He pawed hard at Pickle Inspector’s chest with his red hand. “Such a funny thing to say, a funny time to say it. From such a funny guy. Don’t you think it’s funny, Pi? After all, you been laughing at me all day.”

Pickle Inspector stared at him, tears welling up in his eyes, and spoke with his voice already breaking around a sob. 

“Nnno, I think it’s s-sad.”

Hearts’s jagged, hungry scowl shuddered and he took his hand back. His mouth hung open for a second before he backed off.

He moved away, reached for the door. He walked out into the dark Yard and slammed the door behind him. It was a clap of thunder, almost enough to finally knock Pickle Inspector flat on his back. But he stayed up and stood there mopping at his face with both hands. 

“Like I said, one hell of a joke.” A calm voice told him, infinitely pleased with itself. 

“Wh-What do you knnnow about it?” Pickle Inspector snapped, shaking his wet head. “You, you’re a k-kidnapper, a mmmurderer.”

Pallino shrugged. 

“So what was stopping you, good guy?”

Pickle Inspector pushed out into the muddy Yard, expecting the rain to blast into him. But the rain had finally stopped and nothing washed the tears from his face. He saw Hearts’s big shape moving steadily down the path back to the machine shop. 

“Hearts wait!” 

He caught up but stayed a step back, seeing an awful new side of a familiar face. Pickle Inspector tugged on the front of his wet coat, stumbling to keep up with Hearts. 

“P-Please, you have to l-let me explain,”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Hearts stopped short, Pickle Inspector bounced off of him and then felt his ankles stick in the mud. “Do you understand? You’re done playing me, Inspector. You lied to me, you held my boss hostage, you wasted all day getting cozy so I’d let you off easy. And all for a little money. Am I missing anything?”

Pickle Inspector dragged the check, soggy and limp in his fist, out of his inside pocket. 

“The money,” he said absently, an intent stare moving from Hearts to the check. His hands moved on their own, ripping the check apart and then scattering it into the wet air. Five thousand dollars fell uselessly into the mud and disappeared immediately. “I nnnever cared about the money-- This wasn’t some g-game to me I swear.”

He brought the intent, indelicate stare up to Hearts. His cheeks were hollow, his jaw set.

Hearts watched him for a long moment, then asked. 

“Is that it?”

A whimper of pain rose out of the detective’s knotted stomach. His mouth shivered open but he couldn’t make a sound. His head drooped low and without seeing his face he knew Hearts was getting sick of waiting for him. Pickle Inspector let his arms fall to his sides, gulped down a sob and simply shook his head. 

“Too thin.” Hearts’s growling voice decided. A hand took Pickle Inspector’s lapels, pulled him out of the mud and tossed him two feet ahead of Hearts down the murky path to the machine shop. “Get moving before you get yourself hurt, Inspector. There’s nothing left for us to say to each other.” 

Pickle Inspector stuck in the mud, staggered, then trudged ahead of him. They reached the bottom.

As soon as they saw him, Hysterical Dame and Nervous Broad closed in, shoving their bodies and their weapons between the two men, both women grabbing one of Pickle Inspector’s arms. 

“Let’s get out of here, Pickle.” Dame said, muscling him away from Hearts, who stared and glowered but let the three of them inch backwards through the mud. Clubs came to his side, looking confused. 

Dame trained her .45 on him and Broad kept her flamethrower pointed at Hearts. 

“B-Broad?” Pickle Inspector’s voice was quiet and thin. The other sleuths kept him moving, having to push and pull him passed the front of the machine shop. “Can I b-borrow your keys?” 

“What?” She said in a hiss, looking back at him. The Bocces, all rounded up and sitting in the shop, watched as the sleuths stalled in front of the far lighted corner of the shop, Hearts and Clubs slowly coming towards them. Hearts was speaking inaudibly to Clubs without taking his eyes off Pickle Inspector. 

When she didn’t give him the keys Pickle Inspector reached for her purse and rifled for them himself. 

“Pickle what are you doing--”

“Pi we’ve no t-time to--” 

“It’s j-just one last thing,” Pickle Inspector palmed the keys and went limp, slipping out of their grips and darting away. He disappeared around the side of the machine shop.

An overlap of shouts and rushing feet followed him. He came into the long shadow at the back of the shop. 

Pug Nose was sweating and cursing, jabbing a penknife into their handcuff with such force that they shook from head to toe. They looked up and sneered, whipping the knife out and pointing it at Pickle Inspector. 

“What do _you_ want?”

The hand with the knife was shaking. Pickle Inspector guessed if they stabbed him it would hurt, and he already hurt so it wouldn’t matter. He reached past the knife, put the key into the handcuff on their wrist and turned it. 

The cuff opened and Pug Nose took their hand out, rubbing their wrist. 

“Oh.” They looked confused, searching Pickle Inspector’s face with theirs still twisted and bitter. “What’s the catch?”

“Juh-Just get out of here--” 

“Inspector!” Hearts’s shadow appeared on the far side of the shop, coming towards them fast, red eyes glowing. Pug Nose shoved Pickle Inspector out of their way, elbowed through Dame and Broad as they came around the side, and then ran clear to the gate. They were gone before Hearts closed with Pickle Inspector. 

“Goddammit.” he snarled. “You really have to make this worse for yourself, don’t you?”

Pickle Inspector looked into his face then Dame and Broad dragged him back and closed ranks in front of him. 

“Heckuva time to be a hero, Pickle.” Dame told him, fear in her voice. Broad said nothing, staring ahead. 

“We mmmade a deal, Hearts.” Pickle Inspector spoke up over their heads. Hearts’s eyes widened and the other sleuths glanced back at him as he continued. “A-Anything you don’t like, anything mmmy friends have done, well, I’m the one reh-responsible. So, so one more thing can’t mmmake this any worse.”

“Are you serious?” Hearts stared. Pickle Inspector nodded, wanting to throw up. 

“We sh-shook hands on it.” 

“Pickle--”

“Hearts--”

“What’s he talking about?” They asked.

Hearts breathed in deep, his chest swelling, and let it out and pulled in another breath and another, faster and faster as his color rose. 

“Hearts, you shook hands on that?” Clubs asked. 

“Pi, what on Earth have you done?” Broad’s eyes were piercing in the dark. 

The two men stared at each other with their friends lost between them. 

Pickle Inspector thought of all the things he needed to tell Hearts and how useless they all were now. Hearts held his eyes, with nothing showing on his face until he spoke through grinding teeth.

“Okey, Inspector. Have it your way. You’re responsible for all this, the others can scram.”

“We’re not leaving him.” Both women spoke fiercely, blocking Pickle Inspector in. Hearts took them in with hollow black eyes. 

“First thing’s first, why don’t you give us Spades back.”

Pickle Inspector nodded, touching Dame and Broad’s shoulders. 

“Alright,” he said softly, reaching for the ladies’ weapons and lowering them. They both gave him horrified stares. “L-Let’s go.”

He led them out of the smoking gate, down the long empty block, across the wet street, back to the lane they had come from. Broad and Dame stayed right behind him, muttering to each other to form a plan that could never work. Clubs followed, rummaging in his pockets for anything he could light and throw for some instant gratification but finding nothing. Hearts stayed behind the others without looking at any of them. 

Hearts and Clubs had the other cars parked in. Pickle Inspector wondered, as the ladies stowed their weapons and glared poisonously at the mobsters, if running had ever been possible. If he had left Pug Nose to their fate, maybe the three of them could have gotten away. Or maybe there would be just enough time to smash and scrape up one of their cars before the Crew descended on them. 

He didn’t know. 

Clubs clattered into his Desoto, pulled out and watched Dame wheel her enormous Chrysler into the street. Broad took Pickle Inspector’s arm, her eyes hard and tearful, and they climbed into her Beetle. Pickle Inspector watched Hearts looking after them in the rear view mirror. Then he brought his truck down the lane and the sleuths led them out of Low Town. 

It was midnight when they reached 1570 Franklin Street.


End file.
